We pulled up outside the apartment and filed out of the car. Me being last and the slowest. While Dean took the wheelchair out of the trunk, I carefully pushed my door open and carefully swung my legs out onto the sidewalk. Each movement was hesitant as I expected the pain to come back at the slightest of movements. I was holding myself stiffly, saving my right side, and making sure nothing bumped it as I pushed myself to my feet, using the door for support. Kira and Seb offered me a hand, but I politely declined with a shake of my head.
Dean brought the wheelchair over (a duffle bag of all my belongings from the hospital slung over his shoulder) and waited for me to decide if I wanted to use the chair or brave the walk to the front door. A walk that looked a lot longer than I remembered.
Kira and Seb began walking ahead, I think to ease the attention on me a little.
I wordlessly opted for the chair and lowered myself into it while Dean held it still. Once I was settled into it, he kissed the top of my head and wheeled me towards the building.
After a ride up to the third floor in the elevator, the doors slid open to reveal the hallway beyond and I instantly fought the urge to slump tiredly in my chair at who I saw ahead.
Susan, our noisy neighbor, was out in the hallway, heading in our direction. Her face pinched into an expression of judgment as her eyes flicked between each of us. She looked to have gotten a fresh trim of her short, blonde hair.
I was too tired for gossip, or snide remarks, but forced myself to smile politely as we left the elevator and drew nearer to her.
For a second, she looked to consider slowing to talk, until she saw whatever expression was on Dean’s face. She breezed straight by us instead.
It was hard to describe how I felt about being home. The last time I was here was when I was rushing out the door to find Kira. Everything was how I left it, including the cold, untouched cup of herbal tea sitting on the kitchen counter.
“How about we throw a little, completely chill, welcome home party?” Kira suggested, stepping into our small kitchen.
“Yeah, sounds good,” I replied, managing a smile of my own. I was happy everything was back to normal — as normal as it could get.
“I’ll help you,” Seb said as he followed her. They began raiding the small pantry, pulling out snacks and a bottle of wine.
Dean, who still hadn’t said a word since leaving the hospital, brought me over to our pastel blue couch. But I reached behind me, placing my hand on top of Dean’s wrist to get his attention. He immediately crouched down beside me, eyes searching.
“I, uh, I think I might go lay down. Just for a little while.” I swallowed, voice quiet. “I’m feeling a little tired.”
His brow pulled into a frown, but he nodded in understanding. “Yeah, of course. Did you need a hand?”
I smiled softly and shook my head. “I can manage.”
Dean offered me a hand anyway in case I needed to grab something as I pushed up from the chair, but he didn't crowd me like everyone else had done at the hospital. He knew how to help and support without being overbearing about it. Simply being there was enough and I knew he wouldn’t let me fall.
I kept my head down as I padded across to my bedroom, trying not to draw attention to myself even if I could feel Kira and Seb watching me curiously. As I closed my bedroom door, I overheard Dean quietly explaining to them that I needed a minute.
More than a minute.
I pressed my forehead against the back of the door once it was closed, taking a breath before I turned to face my room. Again, exactly how I left it, except for the stuffiness in the air after leaving the window shut for two weeks.
A dull ache throbbed down my right side. An ache I knew was normal. My body was healing and that was my blood pumping through me that I could feel. It's what happened when I walked and walking was good. It prevented clots in the wound. But no matter how many times I told myself the exercise helped, it didn’t stop the memories from coming back to the surface of blood pumping from me. I could vaguely remember the weakened thump of my heartbeat in my ears, and the gushing feeling coming from my stomach and back.
I pulled my arms around myself but refused to sink. Instead, I brushed off the thoughts as best I could and headed across to the window. Cracking it open and sliding it all the way up, until stretching my arms more than midway pulled at my stitches.
“Dammit,” I hissed as I checked my shirt.
It became a habit of mine to check for blood. There were multiple times, usually during the night in the hospital, when I would wake in a cold sweat and quickly lift the bedsheets to check I hadn’t bled out again.
Dean was there each time.
The first time was when I frantically checked I wasn’t lying in a puddle of blood, like in my nightmare. He was asleep but woke to my sobs. I tried to play it off as nothing. The second time I woke up from the same nightmare, he was already up. He was watching TV with only the subtitles on as I slept. I didn’t have to say anything for him to know, and he said nothing back. He simply moved from the chair and lay down beside me until I fell asleep again.
I took a seat on the edge of my bed, opposite the window with my hands on my thighs, and watched as the sunlight streamed down across the carpet while I eased my shoes off. Taking several deep breaths, I let my hands slide up toward the hem of my shirt. Then paused to breathe again, this time closing my eyes.
“I’m fine. I’m healing,” I whispered before lifting the side of my shirt.
I no longer needed the full wrap-around bandage I wore in the hospital. Instead, I had gauze and large adhesive squares on my side and back. They were uncomfortable, and sticky, and had to be removed before every shower and then replaced with a fresh pair. Every time I peeled the things off, I felt like I was undoing all the stitches beneath.
The thought of doing it repeatedly caused a wave of emotion to rush through me. Not as intense as the one I had at the hospital, but one strong enough to cause tears. I wiped at them quickly and tugged my shirt down.
