The paramedics worked quickly, immobilizing my neck and placing me on a stretcher. My father’s protests faded into the background as I was lifted, the world shifting and swaying around me. The last thing I saw before they loaded me into the ambulance was my mother’s face, twisted in confusion and anger, and Ryan—no longer smirking, now pale and quiet, eyes glued to the ground.
Inside the ambulance, EMT Morris stayed by my side, her presence comforting amid the chaos. She held my hand as we made our way to the hospital, her eyes kind but filled with urgency.
“Try to stay calm, Hannah,” she said. “We’re taking you to the best facility nearby. You’re going to be okay.”
The words washed over me like a fragile promise, one I clung to as the ambulance sped through the streets. I tried to focus on her voice, but questions swirled in my mind. What if I never walked again? What if Ryan’s reckless prank had done irreversible damage? Anger flared within me, mingling with the fear.
When we arrived at the hospital, a team of doctors and nurses whisked me into a flurry of assessments and X-rays, their faces serious as they worked. The MRI machine loomed large, its cold metal surface a stark contrast to the warmth of EMT Morris’s hand.
As I lay there, motionless inside the machine, my mind raced back to the events leading up to the fall. Ryan had been laughing with his friends, carefree and unaware—or perhaps uncaring—of the potential consequences. It had been more than just a prank; it was a pattern, a dynamic that had defined our sibling relationship for years. But this time, it wasn’t just a sibling spat or a playground scuffle. This time, it was life-altering.
The MRI revealed the truth I had feared: a severe spinal cord injury. The doctors explained the prognosis in careful, measured tones, detailing the surgeries and therapies to come. Words like “recovery,” “rehabilitation,” and “support” floated around me, but what stood out most was the gravity of what lay ahead.
As I absorbed the news, a police officer entered the room. He spoke with a calm, professional demeanor, explaining that they were investigating the incident. The oily deck was being treated as a crime scene, and they needed to understand exactly how it had happened.
My heart ached as I recounted the events, each detail sharpening the betrayal I felt. The officer took notes, his expression serious and focused. Eventually, he asked the question I dreaded.
“Do you want to press charges against your brother?”
The room fell silent, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. I thought of Ryan, my brother, the one who had swung me on backyard swings and shared ghost stories on rainy nights. But I also thought of the smirk, the oil, the moment my world shattered.
