“Can I have a sleeping pill, please?”
* * *
Aidan
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I’m going to kill someone if it doesn’t stop. Careful to keep my body still, I cast an irritated glare at the monitor taking up space at my bedside. It has the added attraction of letting me know I’m still alive, but that’s about it. At this point, I’d happily die rather than hear another sound from it.
Drama queen.
Maybe, but combined with the insane amount of pain coursing through me, checking out seems a viable option.
Or chucking up.
Fuck.I swallow hard, trying to dispel the violent nausea swelling in my scratchy throat. Panic takes hold as I realise vomiting will involve movement, and a desperate, inhuman groan escapes me.
Pain.
“I know, mate. Use your morphine pump.”
The voice is far away and nothing like any of the voices that have followed me into hell, but the mention of a morphine pump rings a distant bell.You fell, remember? You broke your leg and had a tube shoved between your ribs.
More nausea. I have zero clue where the mythical morphine pump has gone, but I know one thing for certain: I’m going to be sick, and it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.
That’s two things, arsehole—
The devil on my shoulder is no match for my years-old reaction to extreme pain. Bile surges in my throat and my stomach contracts, triggering fiercer waves of agony. I lurched sideways and throw up into the darkness as another ragged sound tears from me.I can’t breathe.I—
A cool hand touches my face, turning it gently. “There’s an emesis basin right there, and I’ve put your pump by your left hand. It was on the floor.”
“Ludo, back to bed, please.”
The second voice is stern and one I recognise from the last time I upchucked on myself, but it’s little comfort to me as the soothing palm slips from my cheek. For the brief moment it touched my skin, it grounded me. Without it, I’m swimming again, with nothing to cling onto but pain.
* * *
Sometime later, I open my eyes. A stark hospital ceiling, itchy sheets, and cold draughts greet me, but the burning in my chest has faded, and my leg is so numb it seems no longer attached to my body.
I shift cautiously to ease the stiffness from my shoulders and brave a glance around, but there’s not much to see. The bed beside me is empty, and across the aisle, everyone seems to be asleep, if the hunched shape in the bed directly opposite is even a person.
Giving a shit is exhausting. I drop my head and consider passing out again, but before the thought completes, a tall figure darkens the end of my bed. A doctor who looks like he belongs on the set of an American hospital drama.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr Ramsey. Are you feeling awake enough to talk?”
I contemplate holding an actual conversation, something I avoid even when I’m not skewered on a hospital bed. Despite Dr Hotness, it doesn’t hold much appeal. On the other hand, the desire to escape is strong, and the doctor likely knows more about when that might happen than the nurses I’ve cursed at and puked on. “I’m okay.”
Dr Ramsey draws the curtain around the bed, pulls up a stool, and sits down. “Good. I know you’ve been quite sick overnight, so I’ve left you alone, but I want to get that chest tube out of you before I go home. It must be uncomfortable.”
“It’s not fun.”
“I’ll bet. You were a trooper when it went in, if it’s any consolation. Didn’t make a sound.”
“Huh?”
“I was on the HELIMED team that extracted you from the accident site.” Dr Ramsey makes a note on the clipboard he’s holding. “I don’t expect you to remember much of that though.”
I’m having a hard time recalling what day it is, let alone the shit show my life has descended into while people have shoved tubes into every orifice. I remember the tree, the truck, and falling. After that, it’s a blur of pain and confusion. “I don’t remember you.”
