I gently opened my eyes and routinely moved to stret-

  Ow-OW! What the fuck!?

  Scratch that, moving hurts like hell. It felt like every bone in my body was shot simultaneously by a pistol.

  I lift my head from the pillow I was resting on while being careful not to incite any more pain. It felt like if I made one sudden or exaggerated movement, I’d experience a lingering pain that’d last for days.

  The first thing I noticed was that I was shirtless, the article of clothing replaced with bandages wrapped around my upper torso. I slowly sat up, being careful not to agitate whatever injury I had received. As for the room, the layout is what you’d expect in a typical school nurse’s room.

  Why am I bedridden anyway?

  I tried to recall all the moments that led to my situation.

  Following my reincarnation and my meeting with my summoner and Mr. Blonde, I went through some impromptu enrollment procedures for whatever school my summoner goes to. Mr. Blonde wanted to ensure I’d acclimate as smoothly as possible, providing me with a map of the school and a visualization of their workplace hierarchy. While trying to memorize a route for all the classes he enrolled me in, I somehow lost my key and ended up face-to-face with one of the teachers. Then I tried asking the old man to help me find my lost key, but I ended up getting launched by some invisible force that rendered me unconscious, and now I’m here.

  Asshole! Is that how you treat enrollees who are to become students?

  I internally repeated every swear word I knew while picturing the decrepit old man and his stereotypical wizard outfit.

  Putting aside thoughts about the first person who nearly killed me, I gave a second look at my condition and noticed my arms seemed to be relatively fine. The pain seemed to be localized around my back and upper torso.

  How long was I out for?

  What explanation did the old man provide for my unconscious state?

  How did my summoner and Mr. Blonde react?

  A door opened, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was a new face, a woman’s. She was likely the one nursing me.

  Hopefully, as I briefly thought of more unfortunate situations for my vulnerable state.

  Her polite and cheerful tone suggested she was giving greetings before shifting to a monotone and professional tone, monologuing a continuous stream of syllables. I couldn’t detect any concern in her voice. Could that mean that injuries of a similar extent to mine are a regular occurrence?

  She snapped her fingers in front of me a few times, likely asking, “Hey, are you listening?” or demanding, “Hey, pay attention.” Lady, I hear your syllables loud and clear. I just don’t understand anything you’re saying!

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  Unintelligible conversations are going to be the death of me. And I haven’t been alive in this life for that long!

  Like the others, she gave me an expectant look, awaiting an answer.

  If there’s anything I know about doctors and nurses in my world, it’s that they greatly value succinct and direct feedback about their patients’ well-being. Still, I’m sure a lot of the time, they’ll encounter patients who aren’t as medically knowledgeable as them, so they’ll have to settle for workaround explanations such as “my knee is going ee-ur-ee-ur when I do this” or “I feel pain around here,” followed by them pointing to the general area, followed by a line of questioning. The thing is, such conversations are only possible if both parties speak the same language. I couldn’t understand her, and I had little doubt she could understand me.

  Think, what can I… oh!

  I recalled the poster carrier I created being on my back before ending up here. I’ll try asking about that!

  I acted out a charade of me carrying a bag while holding its shoulder strap, and waved to the general area behind my back.

  She gave me a confused look before immediately pointing to the coat rack by the door, where a hook was hanging my damaged poster carrier by its strap. A section of it was flattened, like a car had accidentally run over it.

  I acted out another charade of rolling out a giant sheet of paper, before wincing a bit from the pain I tried avoiding.

  I was about to try again when the door opened.

  In came the 2 faces I could best trust not to kill me. There was my summoner, who was on the verge of tears. I’m unsure if it was genuine concern or because he’s yet to use me for whatever purpose he intends. The other face was Mr. Blonde, who looked rather stone-faced.

  My eyes drifted toward the rolled-up paper in Mr. Blonde’s left hand. I saw traces of my doodles on the map he provided.

  I pointed toward the paper in his possession, and he gently placed it on my lap. I heard him speak a few syllables, and the woman promptly left the room.

  Then, silence.

  Mr. Blonde gave me an intense gaze, as if he were trying to pierce into the depths of my soul. It was hard to tell if this was his resting expression or if he was merely doing a professional job of masking his seething anger.

  Judging from how my summoner angrily spouted his syllables and Mr. Blonde’s subtle nods, they’re both angry that I got injured and hospitalized, likely for different reasons.

  Luckily, I have a description of the culprit behind my bedridden state, and I don’t need to jump through hoops.

  I produced a corkboard with a metal frame, slightly bigger than the map, so that the frame would surround the paper’s edge. Then I flipped it over the hierarchy with chibi-style caricatures.

  I looked up to see the faces of my only guests, both of whom I caught the attention of, seeing curiosity written on their faces as they wondered why I was producing the object I was.

  I placed the paper chibi-hierarchy side up on the corkboard, then produced an X-acto knife in my right hand. My summoner produced some syllables when I made the sharp object, but I paid no mind.

  Carefully, I used the knife to cut around the illustration of the old man in the stereotypical wizard outfit, being careful not to cut the other depictions of people.

  Finally, I carefully raised the cut-out drawing, holding it in front of both my guests to see. I fully intended to answer their looks of confusion with this next action.

  I cupped the drawing in my right hand.

  Swish my mouth to produce some saliva.

  And spit on the drawing of the old man.

  Before crumpling it and throwing it toward a wall with all the anger I mustered.

  Ow!

  That movement hurt the most.

  While I was recovering, I observed the reactions of both my summoner and Mr. Blonde.

  My summoner seemed almost appalled that I did something so disrespectful toward the old man.

  Mr. Blonde, on the other hand, seemed… indifferent, stoic even.

  The former shouted at me, but the other made no effort to stop him, his gaze meeting mine, as if understanding.

  I could’ve done a simple charade of pointing at the drawing of the old man in wizard garbs, then to my bandages, but such simple actions would utterly fail to convey how much I loathed the old man for hospitalizing me when I was trying to ask for help.

  If Mr. Blonde was truly the head honcho, then I hoped the old man was punished accordingly and proportionately to the injuries I received because of him.