Part 11
1262 Words
ELEVEN
When I was aware of my surroundings again, I found I couldn't hear anything. It was too quiet. I opened my eyes in shock, blinking to make sure I'd really, finally opened them.
I looked up at a white ceiling with an institutional fluorescent light. The light was dim, leaving shadows on the ceiling, but it felt too bright to me after so much darkness.
Focussing on trying to keep my eyes open, I experimented with moving my toes, then my fingers. My toes moved fine, but my fingers felt like they were tangled in the sheet. I could certainly feel them, but they barely moved through the resistance of whatever wrapped them.
I tried to lift my arms so that I could see my hands. I managed to bring them into my field of vision, before I tried to move my fingers again. It took me a few moments to realise that the white swathing my hands wasn't a pair of weird, white gloves. They'd bandaged my hands and all of my fingers. No wonder I couldn't move them.
It occurred to me that I was pretty useless with my hands disabled.
I shouldn't be alone. He promised he'd be here. Did that mean they killed him?
I called for him, irritated that I didn't know his name.
I tried to sit up, but I was afraid to put any weight on my evidently injured hands. Crunches were never my strong point, but this was the first time I'd regretted avoiding them. Everyone should do daily crunches, just in case their hands are disabled and they need those tummy muscles to sit up.
I heard his voice nearby and I struggled to focus on his words before I saw his face above me, looking exhausted. He wore a shirt now and he looked fine, as if he'd never been shot.
He touched his fingers to mine and I felt the heat of his hand through the bandage before he ripped his hand away as if he'd been burned.
I didn't feel burned. I couldn't feel any pain in my hands or anywhere else. Stunned, I tried to process this and came up with two options – either we were both dead and he'd waited for me in the afterlife, or I'd been given so much pain medication I just felt like I was made of cloud.
I hesitated, feeling it would be rude to ask if he was dead. He didn't look it. "I'm not dead, am I?" I asked instead, wishing to be right. My voice felt weak from lack of use and my throat was dry, so the words were much quieter than I expected.
He smiled broadly, his eyes laughing.
Was it funny because the answer was no or yes? Worried, my eyes fixed on his face. Please, don't let me be dead!
I sighed in relief as he told me I was in hospital and on strong pain medication.
Medication I didn't remember being given. "What happened?" I demanded in my weak voice.
He looked bewildered. "You were hurt." I don't think he wanted to explain how badly I'd been hurt – thought the strong drugs were a pretty good indication. As for how I'd been hurt... s**t, even I didn't want to think about that.
I tried to explain to him what I remembered of the last things I'd seen, before waking up here. Nurses and scissors, syringes and simpering cartoon characters. How do I describe there's a huge gaping hole in my memory and I'm asking him to fill it? How do you describe a huge gaping hole, except that it's dark? I shook my head, trying not to think of the dark again. I swallowed. "What happened?" I asked him again, my voice louder this time.
His words came out in a rush. "You fought the nurses. You were so scared. I think they gave you something to make you sleep – you've been asleep for a while."
I'd fought the nurses? Why? All I'd wanted to do was find out if he was okay. Haltingly, I told him what I remembered – trying to get up and not being able to – but he interrupted me.
He sounded horrified. "You did too much as it was – if you'd done any more, we might have lost you. You came so close, Caitlin... hell, I was scared." His eyes held mine for a second before he looked away.
I almost died? When I find out who's responsible, I'm going to hunt them down and kill them slowly. Why didn't I remember? I came that close to death and I didn't even know? My eyes filled with tears that I couldn't wipe away with my useless hands. I tried furiously to blink them away, but what he said next turned the waterworks tap on full.
"It's over."
The shock, the relief, all of it just gushed out of me as I bawled. His hands hesitantly patted my back as he helped me cry into his shirt.
It felt like the tears would never end, but they did. Realisation came that if he was telling the truth and I'd nearly died, I owed him.
I chose my words carefully. "Thank you. I think... you saved my life." I tried to find a nice way to phrase what I wanted to ask next, but I just couldn't. "Who are you? I barely know you."
"My name is Nathan Miller. I found you lying on the beach. I just brought you in to the hospital," he rattled off, as if by rote.
So that was his story. And he was Nathan Miller. His sister was Alanna Miller. He'd be a prime candidate for Mr Sleazy Roommate. I found I was looking at my hands, now sedately placed in my lap. For the first time, I noticed the IV line into my right hand and the pain relief mystery was solved.
Focus.
"Nathan Miller," I repeated carefully, as I tried to find the words to express what I was thinking.
Nervously, I licked my dry, cracked lips and made an effort to smile, though my cheeks felt too heavy to do it. "Thank you. You chose to keep your promise... Nathan."
I watched him carefully for his reaction. First he opened his mouth, as if he had a burning question to ask, but his mouth stayed open as he stared at me. He looked wistful.
I dropped my gaze to my lap, counting the seconds slowly before lifting my eyes to meet his again. Contact made. Nathan began to apologise.
I started to say that he hadn't hurt me, when I remembered that he'd been hurt. The blood on his shirt and the dressing on his chest. The memory on the dark road was slow to surface. "You were shot," I said slowly, reaching up to place my hand over where I remembered the blood, the dressing. I could feel a dressing there still, or at least the roughness of fabric sliding over gauze instead of skin under his shirt. He jumped at my touch, as if even the light contact from my hand hurt him. I drew my hand back.
His answer shocked me. "Yes. So were you."
I was shot? That's how I nearly died? My thoughts whirled in my head, water down a plughole, taking me with them.
I could hear his voice continue, but I couldn't make out the words any more. I tried to open my mouth to ask one of the million swirling questions and choked, coughing so hard I couldn't get a word out.
Worn out with coughing, I fought to keep my eyes open. Would he stay, to make sure I woke up again?
Somehow he understood. "I'll be here," he promised, a reassuring smile on his face.
I floated away again.
- Writer
