All Heart.

It wasn't easy for her to care: In fact, it just didn't come natural. Her hair slipped behind her sunglasses and made her eye twitch. She saw that she was doing 80, but it didn't feel a bit over 55; a firm believer in driving fast with he windows down and it was a great day for a drive.

There were no cars on the road. Small town life is easier lived than thought of, or so it seems. The radio was playing some old Tom Petty song and her fingers reacted accordingly on the steering wheel. She kept thinking how warm it was tonight and that in a mere hour she'd be clubbing it up with her girls. The thought of the binge nudged her curiosity. Where would she end up tonight? Oh, the possibilities.

The tire wobbled before it blew out and sent her car into the guard rail. The windshield cracked as the car spun around seemingly from nothing. The steering wheel pulled a hard left against her hard right and her wrist snapped. The spinning car gained speed before settling comfortably over an embankment and her mouth smacked the steering wheel as a conclusive kiss upon arriving to her surprising destination. She tasted blood and couldn't move her arm. The door opened and she rolled out.

Her thoughts first wandered to "I'm gonna be late to the club," before finally setting upon "Holy Fuck." She felt her teeth: All there. Her wrist wasn't so lucky. The bone etched its way through the skin. She clutched her forearm with her left hand and held the wrist in air. Blood trickled down her arm. She threw up on herself and worked her way from her knees to her feet.

The Mustang was busted. Candle Apple paint littered the side of the bank as she made her back up to toward the road. In an act of conceit, she brushed the dust from her jeans and shirt while sacrificing her comfort to a sharp pain emanating from her wrist. There was dust in the wound and it felt like a thousand small fires.

Two directions presented themselves to her as new found options: "The way I came or The way I'm heading."

Given her trip toward her destination wasn't really working out, she headed back towards town. It wasn't long before some kind stranger pulled up and offered her a ride to the hospital. She smiled then collapsed onto the ground.

She woke up surrounded by doctors. It seemed as if all was a split second dream that made no sense. Like any newly woke person, those few precious seconds that blend our dreams with reality felt so wonderful. And then of course, throbbing agonizing pain. Words were tossed around above her in the confusion: scalpal, parents, awake, hear, parents again. She was finally able to pick something coherent out of the barrage being hurled to her.

"Everything will be OK."

She was overcome by sleep immediately. She had no dreams, it was a state of black. If she was aware, then it was surely death to her. She awoke, not long it had seemed, to the news that she'd been asleep for days hailing from the mouth of a young nurse. A Doctor who smelled of cigarettes and stetson entered not long after to ask her some questions.

"Any family?"

None.

"friends?"

Not really. None that would care enough to come out.

"Boyfriend? Someone that could stay with you?"

No.

Three questions made her feel like the loneliest person in the world and it almost brought her to tears.

"Anyone that you could call?"

Maybe.

"We had to amputate your hand."

And the world stopped. She cried and screamed and struggled. The bed did not give, nor did the straps. She was now a freak and made to feel like one. A beautiful twenty something that had the world in her....well...."hands."

She'd been called superficial before. She brushed it off as being chatter from some jealous bitch out to steal her thunder. When she spoke, people listened. It's what being young and beautiful meant. She abused every second of it.

The usual questions came to mind in the moments after: Why me? Does god hate me? What did I do to deserve this?

"You're gonna be here for a little while, we need someone we can call to let em' know you're here. I promise, I'll take good care of you." He said, smiled, then left the room as if he'd delivered the line that would make everything ok.

She always thought doctors were smug but now she had her proof.

The next few days were difficult to say the least. The lacerations that were inscribed on her face were bothersome. She couldn't put her make up on. Her "girls" wanted pics, probably to discuss and pity among their clicks she thought. It was hard enough putting her makeup on. At least she still had her teeth.

Eating breakfast in her room, she noticed the wheelchairs and beds going down the hall. It helped pass the time, that and Oprah. Sometimes people would come to chat, she shooed them away in disgust. These were the lonely days. The best was yet to come.

I'll finish this later. I just had to write something.