The Art of Me (The All of Me Book 1)

by S. J. Blaze

  “Hi there. You feel like joining the land of the living today?” I continue to stare at her. I think I’m supposed to respond but I’m not sure what to say. Land of the living? Is that what they want from me?

  “Your eyes are more alert. You have a huge group waiting for you to wake up, sweetie. They have been here ever since they brought you in. A mighty good looking bunch, too. I’d be real quick to get back to that, if I were you.”

  “Keep them…away.” My voice is low and croaks, I’m not even sure if I’m the one who said it.

  “What’s that, sweetheart?” She pours some water into a cup and then places the straw against my lips. I’m hesitant as I continue to stare at her. “It’s okay, sweetie. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Your husband has security right outside the door at all times. You’re safe. They caught that shooter. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Shooter….

  I take a small sip of the proffered drink and wince as it slides down my jagged throat. How long have I been out of it?

  “Don’t let them…in here. I want…to be alone.”

  “Sweetie, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “My room. No visitors!” The words are stalling in my throat. Catching on the serrated edges and holding them hostage. I have to force them up and I can feel the discomfort again stirring from my stomach.

  “Your husband wouldn’t…”

  “No husband… Annulled. Please. No…no visitors!”

  She nods reluctantly. Then continues bathing me and eventually adds the humming, again. I don’t recognize the song but I allow it to carry me away. She finishes and asks if there’s anything else I need. Food? More water? But I’m no longer responding, swept into the abyss of detachment.

  Later, I hear banging on the door. Fighting. Raised voices. My name. They are mad that they cannot visit their favorite plaything. Their favorite toy. I focus on the anger and frustrations and allow it to infuse my bones, to strengthen me.

  I cannot stay here.

  Here, I am an easy target for their pity. I am an easy target for manipulations. I easily crave their love and affection.

  The same nurse cracks open the door and slides in. The voices momentarily grow louder, then shut off with the closed door.

  “You’ve created quite a frenzy out there. Are you sure you want to shut all those folks out?”

  “How long have I…been here?” My voice is jaggedly rough again. She pushes the straw back to my lip and I greedily sip. This time the liquid feels delicious slipping down. But with the movement, the soreness in my center reactivates and throbs painfully.

  “Four days, sweetie.” She purses her lips, probably wondering where I’m going with my questioning.

  “How much longer?”

  “Depends on you. At this rate, you’re gonna be here at least another few days maybe longer.”

  That won’t work. If everyone is this upset today, I can’t imagine how they’ll be tomorrow. I need to get out of here. I haven’t walked in over four days. I doubt they’ll let me leave without being able to walk on my own. I have to make the effort.

  “Can I get up?”

  She smiles, broadcasting her disturbingly white teeth. “Well, look at you. How about we try getting you to sit up before we start walking?” I nod, and then she pushes a button near the bed. It creaks when it comes to life and suddenly I’m slowly being inclined to a seating position. The new pressure on my middle region becomes uncomfortable and I wince. There’s a potent burning sensation increasing with every second that passes. I know that if I can’t handle this, then I’ll never walk, and I’ll never get out of here.

  “Can I have more pain…medication?”

  “Sure thing, sweetie. We need to get food into you, too. I’ll be back shortly. You’re my only patient, so anything you need is yours.” She saunters away. I hear several loud voices when she enters the hallway. I guess they aren’t leaving. Why? Don’t they want to appease me? I don’t understand.

  I spend the rest of the day in my room concentrating on the next step. First, remaining seated while eating. Then I had to sit on a nearby chair. After about thirty minutes, the pain harshly kicked in but I didn’t relent. I wanted to prove to the nurse that I could handle it. She was so impressed with my progress that she removed the catheter and allowed me to use the restroom by myself.

  That was excruciating. There was a lot of blood, reminding me that my baby was no longer with me. I wanted to shut down again but my desire to be free of all these people outweighed anything. Pain, fear, anger. None of it mattered now. I just wanted out. I wouldn’t even call it freedom, as this pain will carry with me to my dying day. No, I just want out.

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. In only four days, I looked like a different person. My grey eyes, muddied. My smooth freckled skin, sunken in, and nearly jaundiced. I dared not look lower. I didn’t want to see what is left of me. I know it isn’t enough, so why bother.

  I carefully walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. The pain had caught up with me and taken my breath. The nurse, whose name I never bothered reading, scrutinized me. Looking around the vast room, I notice how much bigger it is than the last room I stayed in. There are flowers and stuffed animals lining the shelves along with balloons and cards. These are things you would send to a new mother, not a lost mother. Why would they send such items? Were they trying to hurt me? Remind me of what had been taken?

  “Can I…can I call?” Even speaking was steadily increasing the pain.

  “Do you have a cellphone?” Really? I was fucking shot and left unconscious on the fucking floor. What the fuck do you think? I don’t like this chick anymore. I must have given her a look because she pulls out an old timey phone and hands me the receiver.

  I grab the base and dial. I give her a distasteful look while I wait. I will leave her soon enough, too.

  “Allo, qui c’est?”

  Hello, who’s this?

  “Malice.” His voice is a godsend. He is my ticket out. I hear him grunt and then the phone gets muffled. It takes a few seconds then he returns.

  “Oh, dieu merci, vous êtes d'accord. Ce qui se passe? Pourquoi vont-ils pas nous laisser vous voir?”

  Oh, thank god you’re okay. What’s going on? Why won’t they let us see you?

  “Détendez-vous. C'était…. moi. Je ne veux pas… voir personne. Envoyer…. à la maison.”

  Relax. That was…me. I don’t want…to see anyone. Send…them home.

  “De quoi parlez-vous? Ils sont une mauvaise ici. Ils ont besoin de vous!”

  What are you talking about? They are bad here. They need you!

  “Je ne ... putain de soins!”

  I don’t… fucking care!

  “Merde. Je sais qu'il ya la douleur, mais ...”

  Dammit. I know there’s pain but…

  “Vous ne savez pas de la merde… avec ce que je vais à travers. Obtenir… débarrasser d'eux!”

  You don’t know shit…with what I’m going through. Get…rid of them!

  “Charlie, peut-être vous avez besoin de penser. Peut être…”

  Charlie, maybe you need to think. Maybe…

  “Mal, ecoutez ... vous êtes inscrit comme mes proches ... Vous pouvez prendre mes décisions. Non Coen. Non ... mes parents. Vous pouvez venir ... à l'intérieur. Vous pouvez vérifier ... moi sortir.”

  Mal, listen…you are listed as my next of kin…You can make my decisions. Not Coen. Not…my parents. You can come…inside. You can…check me out.

  “Ce qui la baise parlez-vous? Vous avez été perdu pour le monde pendant quatre jours. Vous étiez juste tiré!”

  What the fuck are you talking about? You have been lost to the world for four days. You were just shot!

  “Je viens de rentrer ... avant de visiter heures ... fin.”

  Just come back…before visiting hours…end.

  The pain is rapidly increasing making speaking difficult. I’m glad that my first real conversation is over the phone
and not in person. I don’t think I could stand the look on his face right now.

  “Que prévoyez-vous?”

  What are you planning?

  “Ne vous inquiétez.... Dois y aller.”

  Don’t worry. Got...to go.

  I hang up. I’m suddenly near exhaustion. My eyelids are fighting to close. I’m not winning the battle against my body. The nurse notices and helps me lay down while tsking at me. What does she know?

  As my head hits the pillow, my body immediately responds with growing heavy into the bed. In seconds, my tumultuous mind is put to rest. I bid this moment goodbye and hope that when I wake, I will be stronger and Malice will be here.

  I wake to more crying. This time, I’m able to link the smells and sounds to Bullet. How he got in here, who knows? He was never actually a rule follower. He’s sitting on the bed next to me and has one arm wrapped around my neck and the other underneath my back. His head is resting against my cheek. I can feel his tears dripping down my face and pooling on the front of my gown. The stubble on his head is scratching me as his shaking continues.

  I’ve never seen Bullet cry. He gets mad, yes. Cry, never.

  “You’re planning something. I can feel it.” He pulls me closer against the broken words. “I won’t let you go again. Please, baby girl, please. If you leave, I swear to fucking Christ, I’ll find you.” Easing up on his grasp, he studies me. “Charlie, do you hear me?”

  He cups my face and forces my eyes to face his. But I don’t see him. I allow myself to see through him. I don’t notice his brilliant fire laden eyes. I remember them, though. They mesmerized me. I hope he finds happiness. He will find love without my interruptions. My presence detrimental to any happiness. I’m a vortex of misery.

  “Charlie!” He yells into my face. I feel the spittle fly against me, but I don’t flinch or make any outward movements. He needs to leave. I never wanted him or any of them to see me like this. “You’re alive! You have to fucking live. Please, baby. Just live. Yell at me. Fight me. Anything…please!”

  “What fook you doing here? No visiting. She want quiet.” I hear Malice’s voice shouting across the room to Bullet. My eyes don’t shift, don’t focus. I keep the numbness close enough to dull my senses while I allow my thoughts to ground me.

  Bullet lets go of me and stands next to the bed. “You spoke with her, didn’t you?” Then his voice shifts back to me. “Why are you doing this?” He hovers above me and jerks my shoulders into my pillow a few times. “Wake up, baby! Wake up and tell me what to do!” He’s screaming at me and the movement is causing sharp pains to jut up from my injuries. I close my eyes and hope that the dizzying waves of nausea will recede.

  “Get off her!” I hear something hit the wall hard, followed by a few more banging noises, grunts and curse words. Then the door opens and Malice yells for Bullet to leave.

  “I love you, Charlie! I won’t give up. Wherever you go, whatever you do…I’ll find you! I fucking love you more than anything in the world. Don’t do anything! Please!” The door slams shut and the muffled noises and banging on the other side continue for another minute.

  The pain brought me back to the present, to the reality of what needs to be done to end this time.

  I need out. I can’t think here. I can’t think of the little baby girl that I never got to hold. The one that will never bump or swirl in my belly again. The one that I will always wonder whose eyes she had. What color her hair was? Did she smile like Coen? Did she have his temperament or my stubbornness? I wonder if she would have brought her parents together. If we would have ever been able to be a family.

  I can’t think about if I would have been a good mom. I would have adored my little girl. She would have been the star in my darkened world. She would be the light. Coen once had that light. It dimmed the night he broke my heart. But my daughter, nothing that she would’ve ever done could dim that light. It would have been blindingly bright.

  Every smile would have been hers.

  “Qui m'a tiré dessus?”

  Who shot me? I whisper after time reenters my space.

  “Mason Becker. Il voulait juge McDonough. Il était en jugement et savait qu'il allait.”

  Mason Becker. He wanted Judge McDonough. He was standing trial and knew he would lose.

  “Que de Juanita et sa famille?”

  What of Juanita and her family?

  “Elle n'a pas fait et la mère a été tiré dans l'épaule.”

  She didn’t make it and the mother was shot in the shoulder.

  I knew it. Damn it! She had her entire life ahead of her. She was a kid! Why? I sniffle as the tears slide down my cheeks. This is the pain that comes with living. The aftermath.

  “Combien ont été tués?”

  How many were killed?

  “Six au total. Deux blessés, y compris vous.”

  Six total. Two injured, including you.

  “Et cette Mason? Qu'est-ce de lui?”

  And this Mason? What of him?

  “Morte.”

  Dead.

  “Il se tué? Flics?”

  He killed himself? Cops?

  “Non, en prison. Il a été attaqué et tué.”

  No, in jail. He was attacked and killed.

  Hhhmm. That’s news to hold onto for a rainy day. Now, I need to focus. I will finish mourning my daughter and Juanita later. First, I need out. Once visiting hours resume, I don’t doubt mine will return. As it is, I worry that Bullet is hiding around the corner somewhere. He knows me too well. I do plan something tonight. I plan on getting out.

  I spend the next few hours working on getting discharged. The doctor and nurses, along with a psychologist that specializes in loss, come to talk me out of it. They threaten to call Coen repeatedly, saying that he is my husband and he is also the one paying the bills. I threaten them with HIPAA. Don’t fuck with a lawyer!

  In the end, the doctor signs the release forms. I have to sign double the discharge papers since I’m signing myself out and they’re fervently against it. I also get a rundown of how to change my dressing and keep my wounds clean. I even managed to get my prescriptions filled.

  With no clothes to change into, I pay one of the nurses for her extra pair of clean scrubs. It’s a bit big but goes over the dressing easily. Hospital rules state that I have to be wheeled out of my room, but the location isn’t specified. I’m not sure if anybody is still in the parking lot watching, so I decide to have the nurse wheel me to the employee parking lot where Malice picks me up.

  By the time we finally drive away from the hospital, it’s nearly five in the morning. I tell Malice what needs to be done and where to go and then my eyes slide shut. The night has taken what little strength I had left.

  I spend the next seven days inside a hotel in Bangor, Maine, which was a four-hour drive from the hospital, far enough for me and yet quick enough for Malice to get back before anyone realized he was gone. He doesn’t know my plans beyond this point. But, as the executor of my estate, he knows I will always be in touch. He bought me a disposable phone for that very reason.

  He was reluctant to leave me, but I insisted. I know he thinks of me as family, a little sister of sorts. Perhaps I think of him in the same way. I know I love him enough to make sure he is taken care of. I have it set up so that my estate will pay him monthly. He will remain under my employ and watch over everything until I return. If I return, that is.

  Before leaving Boston, I removed as much cash as the many ATMs we hit would allow. I have roughly ten-thousand dollars’ cash on hand and the room is under an alias. Malice used the credit card he has under his own alias’ name. He also stopped to buy me lots of snacks and water, several t-shirts and sweats, and a backpack from a convenience store. The studio suite I’m staying in has a full kitchen, so when we got in, Malice ran to the local grocery store to pick up some of my favorites. The hotel has complimentary breakfast and an in-house restaurant, but I doubted I would want to move much.

  Instead, I spent th
ose seven days mourning so many things. Juanita and the new life I promised her, gone. Coen and the promise of so much. He promised to be faithful, a good father, love me forever, and he swore to never hurt me again. I mourn.

  I mourn Loaded Gun and the trio. I helped bring them to where they needed to be. They are on the road to success and the road is vast and beautiful. I have left countless songs in their care and ensured that the label will keep them as long as they are needed. After all, that is why I created the label in the first place, Zap Inc. Records. A palindrome, Zap Inc. is the company that this Paz created to do all of my evil bidding under. Even BedHead is owned by Zap Inc. Nobody ever put two and two together. I know the trio will be in good shape. That’s all I ever wanted for any of them.

  I mourn Tank, the guy who helped save my life, and even Tornadoes. He represents strength for me. He taught me how to go into the cage and tackle my opponent to the ground. He, too, is better off now. Only steps away from being a UFC champion, he is finally reaching his dreams.

  Malice will be fine. I will mourn having him with me daily. But perhaps I was too needy when it came to him. He is free to explore his budding relationship.

  And of course, my daughter, and the millions of things that will never come to be. I wish I would have taken those bullets to the chest, as that way she would have survived. Another few months was all I needed and she would have been safe in my arms. For her, I mourn endlessly and eternally.

  I spend my last day writing them each a letter that I mail from the hotel. I address how much I love each and every one of them, even cheating Coen. I tell them my future dreams for them, how greatly they have impacted my life, and how I will carry them with me wherever my new journey takes me. Lastly but most importantly, I tell them to let me go. They all need to let me free. I need to move on and so do they.

  I leave Bangor and catch a flight towards Atlanta where I have some things stored at a local bank. No identification is needed, as I gave very specific instructions as to how I can access my deposit box. There, I have a backpack filled with false identification papers, credit cards, several weapons, and other such treats. No, I’m not a spy, I’m just prepared. Shit happens, especially in my world.