HANNAH
There wassomething down my throat. It was choking me. I clawed at it, coughed. Someone had stopped me.
No one had taken it out. I eventually got used to it, as much as someone could get used to having something in their throat.
I had a lot of bizarre dreams. Beau was in all of them. Sometimes Calliope. Elliot. Cole. Jack. Nora. Fiona. Rowan. Beau’s Dad. Lori. Finn. Kip. Tina. Tiffany. All of the Jupiter Tides crew. Sometimes speaking softly, pressure at my hands. Beau had yelled in a few of my dreams. He’d yelled in reality too. At the park.
With Waylon. Waylon and a gun.
Clara.Clara.
I’d been content to stay in that strange dream state, the concept of waking up too difficult. It was as if I were trapped in a well; I could see people at the top but with no way to climb out.
I wassotired.
But the thought of Clara, the gunshots, the blood, and the panic had me clawing my way up and out.
There were smells, strong and antiseptic, mingled with juniper andhim. Beeping. A lot of it. I clawed at the thing in my throat again, this time not giving up. Beau was yelling.
“Someone get the fuck in here!”
Rough hands were smoothing my hair. Familiar hands. “It’s okay, baby,” he murmured. “The tube in your throat is to help you breathe, but we’re getting it out right now.Right fucking now!” The last part of the sentence was not intended for me, I didn’t think.
Then there were more unfamiliar voices, calming tones, calling Beau “Sir”, polite yet firm.
Nurses, I deduced.
I was in a hospital. Because there had been a gunshot. There had been blood. There had beenWaylon.
“Clara,” I croaked the second the tube was out of my throat. The single word was immensely painful to utter, my throat scraped raw, my body feeling heavy and useless. I held Beau’s gaze. It was angry. Pained. But it wasn’t empty, wasn’t completely destroyed as I knew it would’ve been if something had happened to Clara.
But I needed to hear him say it. Out loud.
“She’s fine, baby,” he replied immediately, clasping my hand. “She’s fine.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, exhausted.
I could rest now.
“Baby,” Beau pleaded. “Stay here.”
Clara was okay.
I would rest now.
Though I was glad I was doing it, breathing hurt. A lot. I was doing it on my own now, a good thing, but it took extraordinary effort just to inhale and exhale. My lungs felt shallow, as if they were unable to hold enough air. And, when my painkillers werewearing off, the sharp, stabbing pain in my chest was almost unbearable every time I inhaled.
I was thankful for the painkillers but they made my mouth feel full of cotton, my lips were perpetually chapped.
My chest ached with every heartbeat. Because my heart was literally bruised. My left lung had collapsed after the bullet tore through it. I’d learned all this information in bits and pieces.
I woke in fits and starts. Consciousness was hard to hold on to for too long. I tired easily. All was normal for the magnitude of my injury, but it was frustrating. I wanted to be better for Clara, so her little face wasn’t so strained with worry she tried to hide from me. I wanted to be strong for her. Take care of her.
But I could only manage to hold her hand, cuddle with her in bed, murmur a few sentences.
She had her father. I trusted he was doing everything in his power to ensure that she was protected. But he couldn’t protect her from her memories. What she’d had to live through. This was going to follow her her whole life.
I was sick with guilt.
