“Hey, shhh, hey, it’s okay.”
“N-no, it’s not, Riley–”
“He’s okay, baby.”
I freeze.
“What? Say it again.”
He smiles, but it’s weary and sad. “Riley will be okay.”
The way he says it makes me feel both relieved and terrified.
Creed reads the concern on my face and continues, “When we found you, he was battling both blood loss and infection. He had a bullet lodged in his shoulder, so they took him into surgery the moment we got here. All went well, but they have him intubated right now to allow his body to fight off the infection and begin healing. He’s stable, and doctors have a positive outlook that he’ll be okay.”
His words bring me relief, but all that I feel in my heart is a crippling sense of guilt. He never would’ve been in this situation,fighting for his life, if I hadn’t been so fucking selfish. I never pushed him away because I only wanted him closer to me. It’smethat put a target on his back.
“Don’t do that,” Creed softly scolds, crooking his finger beneath my chin and lifting until my eyes meet his. His tone is gentle, but there’s no mistaking the rage roiling just beneath the surface. “Don’t you dare sit there and villainize yourself. What happened to you and Riley, none of that was your fault.”
My eyes volley between his intense gaze, and I nod in his grip, acquiescing. Even the acknowledgement feels like a bitter lie. While I know I couldn’t control the things that Guy had done, I should’ve done more to put distance between myself and those I love. I put them in danger; through my decision to let them in, I caused this pain.
“None of this is your fault, Collins,” Creed reiterates. “I know it’ll take time for you to heal and sift through everything that happened, but I will be here for you every fucking day to remind you that none of the blame is for you to take on. Never will I let that burden sit on your shoulders. Okay?”
Everything he’s saying sounds perfect, but it feels impossible to believe. I just have to hope that he’s right. That some day I may not see things this way. So reluctantly, I nod again and bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. He kisses my hair over and over, before holding me tight and humming a beautiful melody that soothes my battered soul.
But just as I relax into Creed’s embrace, a soft knock fills the space before the door to the hospital room opens, revealing an older man with a shock of white hair on his head and an equally white mustache adorning his weathered face. A stethoscope hangs around his neck, and the crows feet around his eyes deepens with a smile when he spots me across the room. He’s followed by a female nurse wearing dark blue scrubs, who looks to be about Creed’s age. She offers me a kind smile beforeadjusting the messy bun of dark hair on top of her head and sanitizing her hands.
“Well, hello there, Miss Weston.” The doctor’s soft-spoken voice bubbles almost excitedly from across the room. He takes a few steps forward and holds out a hand to me, “I’m Dr. Perry Munn. I’m the attending physician here at St. Raphael Medical.”
Tentatively, I reach out and shake his hand, wincing when I feel something hot pulling at my shoulder.
The doctor notices and gently releases me, taking a step back and clearing his throat. “It’s good to see you awake, Miss Weston. How are you feeling?”
HowamI feeling?
I take a moment to look over my body and justfeel. I’m covered in gauze and bandages, but I can’t feel much of anything at the moment, though my fingers still tingle. I try to explain as such to the doctor, but Creed effortlessly jumps in to help when my voice fails me time and time again. I explain everything I feel the best I can while the nurse—Jo, she introduced herself—flits about the room, checking my vitals, swapping out med bags, layering me in warm blankets, charting her findings, and finally showing me how to use the pain pump to press when I need relief. She eyes my wrists and the fact that I am no longer restrained, but says nothing.
“You need anything before I go?” she asks, her tone kind and her attention focused entirely on me.
“Water?”I try to ask her, but my throat feels tight and speaking feels like sandpaper rubbing against my vocal cords. I want to cry for so many reasons, but I keep the tears at bay, even as they well up in my eyes.
Jo looks to Dr. Munn, who murmurs something to her quietly. She nods and quietly slips out the door. The doctor turns back to me.
“I’d like to go over the imaging and lab results with you before I leave you to get some more rest. Do you feel comfortable discussing those results now?” he asks, his eyes darting to where Creed is practically wrapped around me like a possessive koala.
Yes.I mouth, and my answering nod is immediate as I settle deeper into Creed’s embrace. He holds me tighter, knowing I need the comfort and reassurance of whatever the doctor has to say.
“Right,” he says, opening a folder I hadn’t noticed was tucked under his arm before now. “Prior to your arrival, Mr. McTavish filled me in on the situation, and when you were first brought in, we’d done some initial tests and imaging scans to check for any internal bleeding, injuries, or bone breaks. Results showed no signs of broken bones and no internal bleeding. Your blood tests came back clean, no signs of infection, but they did indicate mild anemia, severe dehydration, and malnourishment.” All of this is no surprise to me, but the reminder of just how long Riley and I were held under these conditions makes me sick to my stomach. Creed is simmering next to me as Dr. Munn eyes him warily before clearing his throat and flipping to a new page.
“Physical assessment showed a total of sixty-two lacerations and skin tears, all varying in size, shape, and depth. Luckily, only fifteen of which required surgical glue or sutures, which I will point out to you shortly. The worst of which we noted to be your left shoulder. This injury was different than the others, and will need to be treated as such. You may feel some tightness and swelling as they heal, but we’ll go over all the ways to keep them clean. Please resist the urge to scratch. The glue will dissolve over the next week or so, and the sutures will dissolve shortly after. Any questions on that bit?”
I shake my head, a knot forming in my stomach.He cut me that many times? I hardly remember much of my time there. I can recall the painful sensations of each cut, but my mind keptme buried as deep and as far away from Guy as possible. My only memories were the brief moments I was awake with Riley.
As if sensing my inner distress, Creed strokes my arms gently, careful to avoid the tender flesh beneath the bandages. My skin beneath his touch feels sticky from sweat and God knows what else, and I long for a hot shower to cleanse all traces ofhimfrom my skin.
Dr. Munn pulls a rolling stool from beneath the computer and takes a seat. “I’ll also put in a consult for PT and OT to come in and do an assessment and work with you before putting a care plan together for after discharge.” He looks down at his notes before raising his eyes to mine again. “I see you have old medical history, surgery to remove vocal polyps?” I nod. “But no therapy follow-up?” he questions, and Creed stiffens beside me, his arms tensing around me. I shake my head. Dr. Munn nods and scribbles something on his paper. “I’ll also get speech therapy in here to do a swallow test before we clear you for a regular diet. I’ll have them bring some low tech communication options so you can rest your vocal cords.”
I nod, knowing it’s going to be averylong road before I feel any kind of ‘okay’ again, but the hope I should feel for finally healing seems to be just out of reach when the doctor says, “There’s one more test I’d like to complete, but we wanted to wait for your consent before proceeding.”
