I squeeze her hand. “It’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay.”
She closes her eyes, and her hand loses its grip on mine.
The heavy scent of antiseptics and fading florals hits me just before the pain. When I swallow, my throat’s raw. Like I’ve chained smoked three packs of cigarettes while downing a bottle of bourbon. But it’s nothing compared to the splitting pain in my side when I try to move.
A monitor beeps. Sheets rustle, and someone grabs my hand.
“No, no, don’t move.” A feminine voice cuts through the thick fog of my brain.
“It hurts,” I complain and am immediately punished for trying to talk by the ache in my jaw.
“Dante.” The memory of what happened crashes back to me. The kicks. The hits.
The blood.
“It’s okay,” Kara says. It’s Kara’s voice I’m hearing.
I blink my eyes—or rather, my eye—open and find her sitting on my bed with me, holding my hand and smiling down at me with a weird grin. My other eye refuses to budge.
“My eye.” I try to bend my arm to feel if it’s swollen, but my arm doesn’t want to cooperate any more than my eyelid.
“It’s swollen, don’t touch it. Just leave your hands down, honey.” She pats my hand.
“Hurts,” I mutter and try again to move, but the pain ricochets through my chest, knocking the air from me.
“I know, sweetheart.” She smooths her hand across my cheek. “It will get better. You’ll get better.”
“I’m getting the doctor.” Another voice, softer, gentler says.
“No.” I lift my hand to stop her, but she’s already gone. Throwing the curtain aside to get to the door. Through the window, I see her standing at a nurse’s station, waving her arm toward my room.
She looks like Kara, too.
“Who is that?” I try again to lift my hand so I can point, but still it’s stuck on the bed.
“It’s Kara, sweetheart.” Kara tells me, but she’s wrong.
“No it’s not.” I wince then close my eyes to the pain.
“Yes it is. It’s Kara.” She insists.
“It’s all right.” Another voice, this one from the doorway I think. I want to open my eyes to see, but they’re so heavy, and I’m so tired.
And there’s still so much pain. Why does it hurt so much. If I’m in the hospital, shouldn’t there be medicine for the pain?
“Focus your eyes here. This might be a little bright,” the voice says just before the light of a dozen suns is shone into my eye.
I moan and pull away, but the light merely sweeps to my other eye. And then there’s more pain as whoever is torturing me forces my eyelids apart.
“Pupils look good.” The light finally goes away.
“Didn’t feel good,” I say, but I’m not sure they hear me because several voices start talking at once. “I want to go home.”
“No, you have to stay in the bed.” A strong hand presses against my shoulder. “Stay still.”
“Tommy.”
“He’s fine.” The voice gets more stern. “You need to stay in bed.”
