She purses her lips. “I’m only looking out for you, sweetie…”
I shake my head. “No, you’re not. You’re not my friend, you just like to dump all over me. It ends here. You better start looking for another apartment. I’d rather work three jobs to rent a shoebox or live in a fucking motel if it means I won’t have to share a place with you. You might be right: maybe Wyatt really is okay and is not calling because he just doesn’t care, but that doesn’t give you the right to mock my pain. I might be naive, but it’s ten times better than being an evil bitch like you are. Now get the fuck out of my room, before I make you.”
Veronica blinks a few times, her mouth hanging open, and then she spins on her heels and leaves the room.
Wait for me…
I slam the door closed and throw myself on the bed.
I love you, babydoll…
My heart is beating fast, my body shaking.
To the edge of eternity…
New tears slide down my cheeks as my brain floods with unanswered questions and echoes of broken promises.
You are my forever, always…
Chapter 2
WYATT
Two months ago…
I feel like I’m trying to breathe air from a small straw filled with Jell-O and my eyelids are squeezed shut from the mind-numbing splinters of pain jolting back and forth through my head.
There’s too much light all around me, it hurts my eyes.
I try to move, but I can’t.
Everything hurts, I can barely think straight from the pain and there’s something stuck in my throat.
I think I’m lying down, but my head is spinning so I can’t be sure, I feel motion-sick and numb at the same time.
There’s a dull ringing in my ears, a steady beep-beep-beep and faint voices bleeding through it.
Men speaking in English but with an accent. Rolled, harder Rs, Th that sounds like Zs and Ps that sound like Bs. Arabic. Syrian, maybe.
“Patient is emerging from D.O.C., vital signs good,” a male voice says.
Is he talking about me?
“Patient is breathing on his own Removing tracheal tube.”
Where am I?
A hospital?
What’s going on?
The pressure on my windpipe suddenly lessens.
I try to take a full breath and immediately regret it when pain courses through my chest.
I try to speak, but my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
I feel hands on my face, fingers gently pulling one of my eyelids upward.
A light is flashed right into my eye and I flinch at the brightness.
“Pupillary light reflex normal,” a second doctor says; this one has no accent.
The light is shined over my other eye.
“Response is good in both eyes.”
Suddenly, my body starts to ache all over, my muscles stiffening and jerking, until I’m gasping in pain.
“Muscular hypertonicity is setting,” the first doctor says.
“Baclofen?” the second doctor asks.
“On it,” a female voice answers.
I try to still my body’s convulsions, but I can’t.
I force my eyes open, though: I need to understand where exactly am I and what’s going on.
“W-w-where?” I manage to hiss out, my voice is raspy and my throat hurts like I haven’t used any of them for a while.
“Patient is conscious!”
I hear people scramble around me.
“Go get the Major.”
There are cold hands on my face again and I sit up.
Pain like I’ve never known shoots up my back and I fall back onto the bed, hands pushing me down.
“Sergeant Ridge, please stay calm, be still. Everything is okay. You are safe. You are in a hospital in Damascus.”
“W-what…?” my voice trails off and I pant with the effort of uttering the one-word question, but I don’t hear any answers because I immediately go under again, darkness enveloping me.
—*—
I stare at the three doctors and at the military officers gathered around my bed as I try to make sense of what they’re telling me. Their voices are still barely coming through the perennial ringing in my ears, though.
I’ve been in and out of consciousness and I still have no clue what’s going on and why I am in this hospital room in fucking Syria no less.
Every time I try to ask for details, they just fucking shush me and tell me I need to rest, and every time I fight them and insist they explain and they start talking, I feel myself going under again and miss what they said.
Not any-fucking-more. I need answers because if I am here, then there’s shit missing from my memory since as far as I know I should be in Georgia right now and if there’s shit missing, that can’t be good.
I need to know what happened and, more importantly, I need to know if it happened only to me and where is my squad.
They start to flash that light in my eyes again and I grunt.
“Can you stop doing that?” I ask and I’m amazed when I can actually complete the sentence in a clear, if scratchy voice.
Whatever medication they have me on it fucking works. Aside from a splitting migraine, I don’t feel much pain in the rest of my body, though the way I’m bandaged all over makes me think I should.
I look around trying to see if I recognize any of the military personnel in the room, but I don’t know any of them.
“Do you know who you are?” One doctor asks.
I shrug. “‘Course I do. Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Khaled, your neurologist. Can you state your name and rank and tell me what day is today?”
I sigh. “I’m Wyatt Ridge, Sgt. 1st Class in the 3-75ers, Doc, and today is… August 7, 2015.”
“Okay,” Dr. Khaled says, but he grimaces.
I frown. “Doc, cut the crap and tell me what’s going on. No need to go easy on me, I can take it.”
Dr. Khaled clears his throat, looking at me like he very much thinks that there’s no fucking way I can, in fact, take whatever he is about to.
I brace for his next words, my hands in tight fists.
“Sergeant Ridge, today is August 20.”
“What?” My eyes grow wide and I try to sit up more.
My mind runs through my jumbled thoughts trying to make sense of what I’m hearing.
“Sergeant, please, try to remain still. The last thing you need is to be jostled around. You have a TBI and you sustained multiple grievous fractures, fissures and injuries.”