Page 40 of Citius

Disgusted with myself and enraged by failure, I hurled the book across the room without a second thought, not caring where it landed, determined never to look at it again.

But I didn’t realize Jenna, my youngest sister, was lingering in the doorway—her slender, pre-teen frame and riot of dark curls backlit by the hall light.

Paralyzed with horror, I could only watch as the book slammed into her sternum, leaving a horrid red mark on her light brown skin, a painful contrast to the gentle frills of her pink lace shirt. Her eyes bulged, jaw slack, as the air rushed out of her lungs with a sickening squelch. My hand stretched out, trembling and useless, as she crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

“Why—why—I hate you… I hate you!”

Nausea choked me awake. My heart pounded beneath clammy skin.The cats scattered as I staggered toward the bathroom, gripping the vanity for balance before sinking onto the cold tiles. I threw back the toilet lid and retched, over and over, spewing out bile until nothing remained but my guilt.

Hooks of pure agony dug into my head and neck as I huddled on the unforgiving floor, panting. Tears further blurred my unfocused vision. Day three of waking up with a migraine.

Tenny had joined me at some point, a spotted loaf beside my knee, offering a steady stream of affectionate blinks and blessed unconditional tolerance. Kip perched on the edge of the sink, the tip of his tail swishing back and forth in slow irritation, displeased with yet another rude awakening.

I was a mess. Had been ever since I started taking the new, lower suppressant dosage. This was only the first reduction. How was I supposed to function like this? Forget making it to my heat in December. At this rate, I might not survive the week. I’d already been chastised for zoning out during radiology rotation.

What if I made a mistake during my clinic hours and didn’t know it yet—what if I hurt someone?

No, I couldn’t think like that. I had to believe in my abilities and trust that I knew what I was doing. Losing confidence would lead to actual mistakes.

Once I calmed down, I pulled myself up with unsteady hands, focusing all my concentration on the simple, rhythmic motion of brushing my teeth. Kip didn’t budge, content to watch the water stream from the faucet and swirl down the drain. A far better sight than my wan, splotchy reflection in the mirror.

Going to bed early last night was supposed to help. But it didn’t. If anything, I felt even achier and more sluggish.

There was no point going back to sleep. My alarm would go off in forty-five minutes, and even a brief nap risked terrible dreams. I couldn’t remember the details, but they all left the same lingering anxiety. Snippets of bad things happening to my parents or siblings. Bizarre football injuries I couldn’t diagnose.

But mostly, I had nightmares about the accident—and the portions of my recovery I was able to remember.

When I was still grappling with the abrupt end of my gymnastics career and the dream of becoming an orthopedic surgeon. Emotionally volatile, I swung between frantic bursts of productivity and being bedridden in a fog of hopeless malaise. My head throbbed constantly. Spasms contorted my back. Food lost its taste. Worst of all, I couldn’tsmell anything.

Even in a sterile hospital room, there should have been one pillow or robe with my scent to reassure me I was safe. Something to ease the constant urge of fight or flight—and with my new hair-trigger, you can guess which impulse won out most often.

The neck fracture healed first, partly while I was unconscious, and then during the first few weeks when I was awake but barely aware. Those first three months are a void. Everything I know about them comes from medical records, cell phone videos, and my family’s careful retellings.

That’s how I know I spent weeks in a neck brace. How I spurned my favorite red chenille blanket and childhood teddy bear because I couldn’t smell them. And that I didn’t recognize Jenna or Rory, convinced they were too old to be my baby siblings.

There were small mercies, I suppose. My accident happened in Canada instead of a city in Europe or Asia. At least Mom didn’t have to face those first bleak days alone. My fathers and older brother, Ethan, loaded up a car and drove to Montreal overnight, ready to do whatever it took to support her—and me.

However, it caused a financial quagmire. I couldn’t meet my contractual obligations for endorsements, and taking legal action against the event organizers drained even more money. The eventual settlement felt like a hollow victory.

Money couldn’t fix me.

It couldn’t repair my fine motor skills or make me a surgeon. I’d never vault again. And nothing could ever repay my family for what they endured.

Instead of enjoying her first year of college, Kelsey spent most of her free time with me, making sure I did my mobility and memory exercises and keeping me sane. She knew the five-year outcome statistics.

Only a quarter of TBI patients improved.

If I focused on my recovery, I could be one of them. She was determined to keep me from falling into the other columns—one of the many who plateaued, declined, or died.

After six grueling months of rehabilitation, I was allowed to go home. Another two months passed before I regained my ability to taste food, and two more before I trusted my memory enough to resume college coursework.

Rory’s optimistic approach to life made him the most adaptable. My physical therapy exercises became games we could do together. He played along when I struggled to remember a word, happily guessingwhat I was trying to say rather than growing impatient. He was also a social butterfly with a busy schedule—hockey games, scout meetings, sleepovers—so he missed a lot of rough moments just by living his own life.

But Jenna was a homebody, drawn to quiet, individual pursuits, always in the middle of a crochet project or reading a new book. A creative sweetheart, too young to understand that not all injuries are visible. That I wasn’t the same person anymore.

The old Morgan—who helped with her math homework, watched baking shows with her, and did handstands everywhere—was gone.

New Morgan had landmines scattered throughout, ready to explode without rhyme or reason.

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