I used to be a dancer, and a damn good one. I was Julliard bound, with a concentration in ballet. I was determined to dance across the stage of Ruth Page Center. But, then, you know, things happened.

Well, a thing happened.

The accident.

My leg was broken in a seven car collision on the Kennedy Expressway.

The doctors said I was lucky. It's a wonder I'm still alive, they say. But how are we the lucky ones? The guy next to me, struggling to breathe with a tracheotomy because the wreck crushed his windpipe, and me, confined to myself. With internal bleeding in my stomach and my spleen, I was in surgery for seven hours. It sure seems seven wasn't so lucky that day.

The sad part is, I'm not the lucky one. People go on resenting me for what happened, even though I'm not the one who drove drunk. Yeah, they resent him too, but, look at me. I'm the little 17-year-old girl who got to live while their mother, or daughter, or husband died that day. What do I have to live for? No kids, no boyfriend, just some stupid dream of dancing for the rest of my life. Hell, sometimes I resent myself. No, all the time, I resent myself. At least I have plenty of time to do it.

No one can hear me. Not a soul except myself. I can scream at the top of my lungs, and no one will even glance down. “THAT HURTS! DON'T DO THAT! WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN?” I shriek, but to no avail. I scream and scream and it hurts and hurts, but they don't stop until they are decidedly done torturing me for the day. Needles and prodding and physical therapy are terrible. But, the worst part is the emotion. My mother, pacing around. I can hear her at night, crying quietly while she flips the pages of a magazine. My father, calling on the phone, trying to make connecting flights back to Chicago from Mexico City, hours of layovers, and his arrival, only to hear him break down weeping, clenching me tightly and kissing my forehead.. I told him, “Daddy, it's okay. Daddy, don't. Daddy, I'm fine,” But he just couldn't hear it through the tears. It seems like everyone was listening, but no one is hearing a word.

It is unbearable. All of it. I can hear my friends whispering amongst themselves when they visit. They whisper about my leg. About my hair, how short the doctors had to cut it to get the glass out. About my hands, how cold they were. How I am lucky to be here. That word, Lucky. It disgusts me. How am I so lucky to be here, alone in a crowd, throbbing with the electricity of pain? How am I the lucky one, to have to be in this room where no one is paying attention to me, as if I'm dead? What makes them think there is anything remotely lucky about losing my dreams and having to be here to experience it? No one understands.

I keep telling myself to fight. Fight for my leg. Fight for my hair. Fight so you don't have to put up with another ounce of this damn pain while no one hears you screaming, fight for that, Trina. No one understands, but does it matter? If I don't try, I'll never know if I'll get on that stage. Even if chances are slim, I gotta fight.

It scares me, sometimes, the things people say. It'll be the middle of the night, and people will come visit. They think that, since I'm asleep or something, they can pour their secrets into my body and they'll just evaporate. The blonde boy from P.E., he told me about his mom, and how she touched him, and how I didn't know but I made him feel good. The girl with the lisp from homeroom, she divulged to me about how I stood up for her one time, right before she was ready to end it, and that what I did made her dump her pills down the sink. The best one, or worst, I can't decide, was Thomas Biggerstaff, coming out to me. Telling me how scared he is to tell his dad, how he is afraid of what could happen. How his mom wants a good, Christian son, and he is so disappointed he isn't that, because he loves her so much. I actually started crying, or at least, I think I did. All these people, so naive to what I am hearing, to what I know now. Not that I'm the type to tell anyone, but it's hard. It's hard to think that I can't reach out to them, I can't hug them, I can't tell them I know, because they think it traveled in one ear and out the other. My deepest wish is that I can share with them, I can be their friend, I can tell them how hard this is. But, I can't. I can't do anything but listen.

I'm tossing and I'm turning on the inside and I'm so uncomfortable, but it doesn't matter. I'm presumed to be dying, but I'm still fighting. They took the breathing tube out today. I'm so glad I'll be able to speak. It feels amazing to be breathing on my own again, knowing the rise and fall of my chest is self-motivated, automated no longer. I still shriek at the stabbing pains that rack me from head to toes, but, no matter how hard I try, I can't communicate the level of pain I am in. I drift in and out, never dreaming, just sleeping a dark, black sleep, and waking up to the same thing. Listening to the chatter around me is what entertains most of my day, when the professionals aren't tugging and prodding at me. I'll be so glad to go home, I'll be so glad to get my feelings out in the world successfully, and hopefully soon.

The pain is just too much. I'm writhing with it. I can't do this any longer! I can feel my eyes fluttering to a break. I slowly open them, and out of my mouth comes a dry, muffled scream that sounded more like a moan. Immediately, everyone in the room comes to a standstill. I glance around, seeing my mother, my father, the blonde boy from P.E., and a doctor I don't know.

“Katrina, do you know where you are?”

I nodded.

“Katrina, honey. You were in an accident. You've been in a coma for about a week.”

“I know, mom,” I said. “I've been here the entire time.”