by Hadena James
“So, you go into a coma today and Lucas will be woken up from one.”
“Pretty much,” I answered. “Do me favor, Xavier. If Lucas wakes up and is capable of having a conversation and not just screaming in pain, don’t tell him about me. Tell him I’m fine, but in my own room. He knows I got burnt. I don’t want him to worry about it though while he’s recovering.”
“No problem,” Xavier said. “Do you want me to have Gabriel or Malachi come see you before you go in?”
“No,” I answered. “They have more important things to deal with. Like tracking down our bomber and bashing his skull in.”
“I don’t think that’s on their agenda.” Xavier pursed his lips. “Well, the bashing his skull in part. They intend to find the killer.”
“If Malachi is alone and finds him,” I looked at Xavier, hoping he’d read my face.
“Gotcha, don’t let Malachi find him alone,” Xavier said.
“When I wake up in a few days, bring me a cookie and a big, greasy cheeseburger with bacon, onions, mushrooms, lettuce, and mayo and if you can scrounge up some onion rings or fried cheese sticks, that would be awesome. If you can’t, try to find homemade potato chips.”
“You never eat that crap.”
“Once in a while, we all have to indulge. If I make it through the skin graft, I figure I’m entitled to go off my crappy migraine diet for a day, maybe two. Also, find me a two-liter of Coca-Cola and smuggle it in.”
“I have to change clothes to come in here,” Xavier gave me a look. “There is no place for me to hide a two-liter of anything.”
“So, I guess my computer or my phone or some other gaming device is also out?”
“Pretty much,” Xavier stood up. He kissed my cheek. It was becoming a habit that wasn’t totally unwelcome.
Frances came in after Xavier left. She tidied everything up and sat down in the chair he had vacated.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“I couldn’t help but overhear and for an awake patient, you have been stellar,” Frances told me. “After your graft, if everything goes well, when you wake up, I’ll make sure you get your phone back and I doubt we can get you a full, unhealthy meal in here, but I’ll see what I can do about the cheeseburger. You might be out of luck on everything else.” She reached into her sterile gown and pulled out a can.
I took the Coca-Cola from her and stared at it for a moment. My fingers had all the feeling in them. I couldn’t open it. She must have read my face because she reached over and opened it for me.
“Thank you,” I said as she slipped a straw into it.
“You’re welcome,” she answered. “I made sure they were both sterilized before bringing them in.”
“Do you have any awake patients?” I asked her.
“In your condition?” She paused. “No. I have a few better off than you that are awake. Most though, well, it’s easier on the body if it sleeps through the entire process with burns like these.”
“This bomber probably filled up your burn unit,” I sighed.
“He did,” she also sighed. “Having you as a patient has helped though. A strong woman with second degree burns on ninety percent of her back that never seems to want anything except a soda and a cigarette is pretty incredible. It gives me hope for the rest of the patients, like your partner, Lucas.”
“I’ll be under when they wake him, won’t I?”
“Yes, I’ll leave you a note though so that when you wake up, you can find out how he did.”
“Thanks,” I said to her.
“Do you want me to stay until they come for you?”
“No, I’m good Frances. With a little luck, you’ll be on duty when they wake me. When I get healthy, you’re going to want my ass out of this hospital so fast.”
“I was warned,” Frances winked at me. “I was told by your supervisor that if you started giving me trouble to just up your morphine.”
“I believe that,” I smiled at her. She left me alone in the room. I turned off the TV and tried to get comfortable on my stomach. I stared at the wall, wondering what everyone was doing. I could imagine my mom with the grandkids, quietly checking her phone repeatedly for news of my condition. Nyleena in front of a judge, giving her closing arguments, hoping that when she had a few minutes, her text messages told her that everything was going fine.
Perhaps it was a dose of needed humanity for me. The bombing had made me realize just how many people cared about me. It was still only a dozen or so, but that was a dozen or so people that I had touched in some way. That same dozen had touched me as well. The same people waiting on text messages and phone calls about me were the same people I considered sacred. If they were hurt, I’d gladly track down the person that hurt them. I’d do it with zeal and extreme prejudice.
I had stopped thinking of the darkness as a monster. It wasn’t. It was me. It was as much a part of me as my arm or my kidney. I could control it or let it loose. Malachi was right; the world needed me to be the person I was. That was a truth I could live with. The admittance that I enjoyed the kill when it was necessary was also something I’d had a lot of time to think about. Saying I had made peace with it would be incorrect. I could admit it to myself. I could admit it to Lucas, Xavier and Malachi, maybe one day, Gabriel. But that was it. It was information my mother and Nyleena never needed to know. As long as I controlled that pleasure like I controlled everything else in my life, it wouldn’t be a problem.
The door opened. It was time to go to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Somehow, I knew I was dreaming. However, it was a long, never ending dream with demons, monsters and clowns. Technically, it should be classified as a nightmare, but my nightmares were far scarier than demons, monsters and clowns.
Sometimes, it seemed like there was a break in the dream. I wasn’t sure what caused them, but I kept trying to repeat the process. This interruption was welcome.
My eyelids fluttered open. The light was bright, blinding me instantly. There was too much noise. Everything seemed to be alive and moving. For a moment, I wondered if I was dreaming again. I tried to move. Pain shot through my entire body. I stifled the need to scream. Nothing had ever hurt so much as my body did at this exact moment.
My nostrils flared as I tried to take control of the pain with breathing and my mind. My eyes had closed and I hadn’t realized it. They pried themselves apart. A dark shadow was near me, but the light behind it was excruciating.
“Aislinn?” The voice was soft but masculine.
“Malachi,” I breathed his name.
“On of a scale from one to ten, what’s your pain level?” Malachi asked.
“Seven hundred,” I whispered. “Are they giving me anything?”
“Yes,” Malachi was kneeling down. My head ached like it had been bashed in with a sledge hammer. My back didn’t just ache, it was sharp, tingling pain that felt like billions of needles were being jabbed into my skin. The back of my legs felt like they had been ripped apart. “They had to take more tissue than expected for the graft.”
I didn’t say anything, I just blinked at him.
“Do you want to go back under?” He asked.
I shook my head very gently and mouthed “no” to him.
“Ok,” he stood up. My eyes tried to follow him, but couldn’t. His height was impressive even when I wasn’t lying down. “I think she has a migraine.”
“Did she say that?” A man asked.
“No, but I know her and I can tell when she has one. I can see it in her eyes.”
“With all the pain killers, she shouldn’t have a migraine.”
“The pain killers and the medically induced coma are the most likely cause of the migraine.”
“We can’t take her off the pain killers,” the man sounded indignant.
“I’m not suggesting that,” Malachi said. “I’m suggesting that you give her a soda and a straw. I’m suggesting that you turn out the lights and some of the monitoring machin
es. I’m suggesting you do something to alleviate the secondary stimuli that causes her migraines to be worse.”
“Oh,” the man, whose voice I finally recognized as my doctor’s spoke. “Do you have a migraine Marshal Cain?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “And I hurt.”
“Well,” the doctor took a moment. “There were problems with the first graft. For some reason, an infection formed in the grafted skin, not on the wound itself. We had to redo the graft using different skin.”
I shook my head gently. At this exact moment, I didn’t care what they had done or why they had done it. I wanted him to stop talking. I wanted the lights off. I wanted the machines to stop beeping and whirring. I wanted a cheeseburger.
“Lucas,” I kept my voice low.
“He’s doing much better,” Malachi said. “His graft went perfect and he is recovering in the room next to you.”
I thought for a moment.
“Xavier?”
“Healed and waiting outside. The doctor wouldn’t let him in because he was screaming about a cheeseburger and a two-liter of soda.”
I smiled and it hurt.
“Tell me what I can get you,” Malachi said.
“The bomber.”
“Ah,” Malachi’s voice changed subtly. “We haven’t caught him yet. No more bombings though.”
“Why?”
“Why no more bombings or?” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Second,” I tried to move and stopped. New pain exploded through me.
“We don’t know,” Malachi answered.
“How long?” I asked.
“How long what?” Malachi’s voice was cryptic.
“Asleep,” I said.
“Nearly two weeks, Aislinn. The first skin graft did more damage than good. For some reason, you rejected your own tissue and it got infected. It had to be removed, surgically and then a new graft had to be done.”
“Great.” I closed my eyes. “Sit on floor.”
“I’m not sitting on your floor, but I’ll kneel if you want me too.”
“Ok,” I opened my eyes, when I felt the warmth of his body just inches from me.
“What?” Malachi talked even softer, adjusting for the closeness of our bodies.
“You are wasting time. Go find this bastard.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.” I looked into his emerald green eyes. “Find him for me. I want him in The Fortress when I get out of this place so that I can go visit him.”
“Anything else?” Malachi asked.
“Tell Xavier tomorrow or the maybe the next day.”
“For what?” Malachi looked truly puzzled.
“My cheeseburger, onion rings and two-liter,” I closed my eyes. My body hurt. My brain hurt. Exhaustion like I had never felt before was moving through me. It started to move up my body from my toes. It was nearly at my chest. I knew I wouldn’t be awake much longer. “Find him.”
I passed out. My dreams weren’t as crazy this time. No demons or clowns. Malachi was in them, so there was still a monster. In my dream, Malachi and Gabriel were on horseback, wearing armor. They were searching for our bomber. I didn’t need a therapist to help me figure out the symbolism in it. My history degree was floating into my dreams of catching this killer.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was silent. The lights were gone. The people were gone. I lay still and listened to the sound of the blood flowing in my own head. My migraine was gone. The pain in the rest of my body was better. Not a lot better, but better. I didn’t dare move. My eyes found several IV wires running from two different poles. One of them was probably their equivalent of feeding. As a sociopath with few pleasures in life, food was one of them. Being fed vitamins and other crap through a tube sucked. But it beat being dead.
Someone came. They moved very quietly about the room. A nurse I didn’t know came into view.
“You’re awake again,” she spoke quietly. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“Please don’t,” my throat felt dry, like I had sucked up the Sahara. “Drink.”
“Ok,” she left the room. I wasn’t even allowed to keep fluids to drink in my room. A few minutes later she returned with a small cup and a straw. I drank from the straw while she held it. I had never felt so helpless in my life. A couple of sips dampened my throat and mouth enough to unstick my lips from my teeth. “Now, I’ll get a doctor.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want a doctor. I wanted to go back to sleep. The wound on my back had hurt less before they had fixed it.
“How are you feeling Marshal Cain?” The doctor was talking before the door had even closed behind him.
“Awful,” I told him.
“That’s to be expected with this kind of thing. Has someone explained what happened?” He asked.
“Sort of,” I told him. “But don’t explain it now, I don’t care. When can I have a cheeseburger?”
“So that’s what that’s about.” The doctor gave a chuckle.
“What?” I asked.
“Every day, at lunch and dinner, Marshal Reece shows up with a fast food bag from somewhere and sits outside your room. He makes a ruckus about getting in and after about thirty minutes, he pulls a chair from the waiting room and sits outside your door and eats a cheeseburger. Then he leaves the bag, with a second cheeseburger in it, on the chair and goes back to his hotel or where ever he’s staying.”
Despite the pain, I smiled.
“How many times has he done it?” I asked.
“Every day for a week now.” The doctor told me. “You’ve been awake a few times during that time, but not for very long and you probably don’t remember it. This graft is going great. The skin is taking well. You’ll probably have pain for several months, but there’s a pain specialist in Kansas City already familiar with your case. He’ll be taking over when you leave here.”
“When is that?” I asked.
“Oh, I’d say a week at the most. You’ll sleep through most of the week. We still have you on pretty good meds and the healing process is very tiring. Especially in your case.”
I closed my eyes. Something he said hit a chord. I opened them back up.
“What do you mean, in my case?” I asked.
“You have a clotting disorder. We were aware of it, but the surgeon that did the first graft didn’t realize exactly how extreme it was. The vessels didn’t grow into the new skin because of it. We had to put you on blood thinners to do the second graft. Are you aware that your hemoglobin is about 22?”
“Yes.”
“That’s dangerous, you run a serious risk of blood clots forming.”
“I know,” I answered. “But I will probably never bleed to death.”
“That’s true,” the doctor agreed. “Anyway, the first graft began to die which led to infection. The infection had to be cleaned, then we had to find more skin to graft, not easy on you by the way, then we had to use vacuum treatments on the graft while you were still in a coma. And we’ve had to really monitor this graft because at first, it looked like it might not take either.”
“When can I have a cheeseburger?” I asked.
“If you feel up to it, I’ll let you have one tomorrow.”
“When can I go back to work?”
“That is going to have to wait a while. With your job, you could easily get an infection in another area that spreads to the grafted skin. Just because the skin is thriving, doesn’t mean it isn’t delicate still. Most patients, I’d say it’d be months before they got back to work, maybe a year. You,” the doctor spread his arms. “You heal faster than most. You have an extremely high pain tolerance and you are in great physical condition despite the many injuries you’ve suffered. It will still be months, but instead of being six or seven months, it will probably be three months.”
“Will I have to sleep on my stomach the entire time?”
“No,” the doctor smiled again. “As soon as you are released from here, you can probably start sleep
ing on your side. I don’t recommend sleeping on your back any time soon though.”
“I never sleep on my back,” I told him. “May I have a soda with my cheeseburger?”
“I should say no.” The doctor said. “But you’ve been a good patient and you really are healing at an astronomical speed, so yes.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I asked.
“Saying what?”
“That I’m healing really fast.”
“Because I have been a trauma doctor in the burn unit for almost twenty years and I have never had a patient like you. The failure of the first graft, should have set healing back six or seven weeks. It set it back one. Even the two donor areas are healing. We’ve already removed all the stitches from the back of your legs and your buttocks.”
“It’s the extra red blood cells,” I told him. “I’ve always healed very fast.”
“It could be. We’ve taken samples of your blood for testing.”
“I’m not superhuman.”
“Actually, in this area, you sort of are. Sometimes, we find extreme capabilities in people. Before I started working in the burn unit, I worked in the ER. I once had a patient drive himself to the hospital after cutting off his own leg. He even brought the leg in. He had the same rare genetic disorder that you have. The stump had clotted closed while he drove. Saved his life. And what should have taken a month or more to heal, was ready for a prosthetic in just two and a half weeks. It probably is your extra hemoglobin that makes you heal fast. But I’ve only seen it once before in my life.”
“Doesn’t sound that rare then,” I smiled at him and closed my eyes. Talking was tiring. I wondered if eating my cheeseburger tomorrow or the next day would be tiring.
Life
Nick had spent five weeks living in the old bomb shelter on the back of his grandmother’s property. No one had come looking for him there. His grandmother occasionally brought him out new supplies.
