When I was in the 9th grade, I hit my head on a sharp shelf. I left my dorm—this was boarding school—and made my way to the health center. Was the skin broken?? A nurse parted my hair this way and that and inspected the point of impact. They told me it was just a bump, gave me some painkillers, and sent me on my way.
The next day, I felt fine. I felt great! Went to class, hung out with my little friends, checked out the student message-board (a real one, with slats and tacks and stuff), and there I saw there was a note for me:
You have a prescription awaiting pickup at the Health Center!
My head felt so fine that I was totally at a loss, but then I decided that it must have been connected with my bump. So at lunch, I walked and walked up the hill to the Health Center. Still dubious, I asked the nurse behind the glass, “Uh…I have a…prescription?”
“Oh–Hi, Anna. Yes, here you go.” I was handed a kind of heavy brown paper bag with my name on it and she looked back down at whatever she had been doing. I walked outside. I looked in the bag.
What was inside?
HEAD AND SHOULDERS
And then I crept to my dorm and hid under my bed and died.