[memory] What: Memory Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing it Warning, this memory contains: Mentions of violence and injury, not graphic.
The kind constable is talking to your parents. You can see them through the window in the door of your hospital room. You only get a sliver of their faces from this angle. Your neck is lifted just far enough off the pillow to see out, not so far that they'll notice. Your arm is stiffly bound and wrapped in a sling, which you can feel over your shoulder.
Your father has a sharp nose and thick, dark hair, without a hint of gray. His forehead has started to line anyway, the outward beginnings of the old man he's been since he was born. Your mother, standing next to him, is bottle-blonde, the expensive sort, her hair soft and shiny and perfectly cared for. She wears light makeup, just enough to accent her dark, wide eyes, her thin and expressive mouth, rarely turned upward in a smile. The constable, in his tall black hat with the silver badge, has been taking notes on a notepad. Now he flips it up and tucks it away.
You can't hear what they're saying, but you can read their body language. The constable looks apologetic, and he seems to be repeating something over and over. He's probably telling them what you told him, which is nothing. You refused to identify the person or people who left you in this bed.
You lean back against the pillow with a wince. It twinges your ribs, which are bruised. The hospital blanket covers your legs, but the worst of the damage is to your chest. In a flash you feel the kicking again, see feet flying at your face. You pulled your arm up to protect it, and so your arm took the brunt of the force. Your nose is tender, broken, and the wings of an adhesive bandage tug at your skin when you frown. It was only yesterday. You can still hear the sharp crack of your arm breaking.
Your eyes grow a little wet, but you quickly pick up the edge of the sheet and scrub at them. If your father comes in and sees you've been crying, you'll never heard the end of it. Besides, what's feeling sorry for yourself going to get you? You remember, again, that you're going to have to go back to school when all of this is over, and feel acid climb into your throat.
At least your parents don't know why it happened. You can console yourself with that.
Tentatively, you pull the neck of your hospital shift up and away, peering down it. It looks worse than it is, you suppose, since the doctors say you'll be back on your feet in a few days. That still means it looks terrible. The skin over your scrawny torso belongs better on an eggplant than a boy.
You glance to the window. The constable is saying his goodbyes. Maybe he's making promises about getting to the bottom of this? He's good at calming down these insistent and sharp people. Your father is grim, but oddly satisfied. Before the constable arrived, he told you that he was proud of you. He didn't go so far as to put a friendly hand on your shoulder, but he did say, "Seems bad now, but every boy should take a good kicking once or twice. Just try to give more back next time, aye?"
Your mother looks less pleased. Angry, no doubt, that the kickers won't be punished. What does it say about her? Her son, getting in fights at school, refusing to name the boys who assaulted him. People will think he's in some kind of gang. Don't they have enough to worry about from his brothers?
When the constable leaves, they talk for a moment. He puts his arm around her shoulders, and he leads her away, out of sight of the little window.
They don't come in. They don't even notice you were watching.