I eventually send them both out before they get tazed or stabbed with a scalpel, and stay with Kenta. He sits in the chair opposite me, watching me with dark eyes. Letting me do what I need to do. Trusting that I’m strong enough to do it. When I hold out my hand, he comes and takes it, massaging my fingers as I dully recount everything that happened to the police. I feel odd and distant, like someone else is operating my body, and I’m just watching it happen.
Eventually, I’m let loose from the hospital with some painkillers, antibiotic cream, and a diagnosis of ‘two superficial lacerations, and symptoms of psychological shock’. The doctors try to keep me in overnight for observation, which is dumb, since they’ve basically admitted that the only thing wrong with me is a couple of cuts and a case of anxiety. I have to put my foot down, but eventually they let me go.
We drive back to the hotel in silence. I sit in the back seat with Glen’s arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Matt is sitting in the front passenger seat as Kenta drives. He’s frozen in place, staring straight ahead at the road. He hasn’t said one word to me since he tackled me back at the cabin. He hasn’t even made eye contact. He’s ignoring me completely. Because apparently, my day hasn’t been bad enough.
We get a lot of odd looks when we traipse into the hotel foyer. I’m not surprised. We’re all dirty and stained. I’m wearing a hospital gown under Glen’s jacket. Matt’s white shirt is covered in so much blood, he looks like he murdered someone.
We make it back to the suite, and I shuffle like a zombie into the bathroom. I pee, wash my hands, then stand and stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, my reflection looks hard. Sharp. My face is all shadows and highlights, like a mask. I study my expression for any kind of life, any spark of emotion, but there’s nothing at all.
I don’t know how I feel, and it’s scaring me. I should be crying. Or panicking. Or relieved. Or angry. I should be feeling some kind of emotion, but I’m not. I’m just numb and tired. Too tired to even stand.
Slowly, I sink down onto the bathmat. The soft blue fabric feels fluffy and comforting under my skin, so I lay myself carefully down and close my eyes. It feels like gravity is pulling me down. I know I should get up and wash, but I can’t.
I can’t.
I don’t think I can do anything, right now. I’m empty.
I’m just starting to sink into sleep when I hear a knock at the door. “Briar?” Glen calls, in his low, rolling burr. “Are you okay in there?”
I open my mouth, but I’m too heavy to move. I hear the door shove open, then Glen’s sharp intake of breath.
“Briar?” He sounds horrified. Guilt squeezes me. He steps closer, dropping to his knees next to me. “Shit, did you fall? Do you feel dizzy? Oh, God, baby, we need to drive you back to the ER—”
“No. ‘M okay,” I mumble.
“Yeah?” He brushes some hair away from my face, his expression soft. “Did you have another panic attack, love?”
I shake my head. “I just—” I try to think of the reason I’m lying on the ground. “I can’t do it?”
“Can’t do what?”
“Anything. I’m really tired.”
He makes a low noise. “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to do anything. Here.” Big hands lift me up, hooking under my armpits to avoid touching my hip. Glen sets me gently on the rim of the bath, then gets to work stripping off the hospital gown. I watch him uncover my bloody skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as he picks a flannel out of the basket of complimentary bathroom products, running it under the tap.
“For what, sweetheart?” He kneels at my feet, carefully taking my foot in his hand and swiping it clean.
“Not being able to do it myself.” I’m just sitting here like a sad, naked lump.
He looks up at me. “It’s normal, love. I’ve seen it with plenty of guys after they’ve been fighting.”
I watch as he rubs the flannel up my calf. “Mm?”
“Yeah. Hell, after we got brought back to hospital after our last tour, I don’t think Kenny spoke for a week. Just sat in his bed all day, staring at the wall. Sometimes your brain needs to recover.” He kisses my knee. “It’ll pass. I promise.”
I nod.
Glen cleans my entire body in soft, soothing strokes, then wrings the flannel out and tosses it into the trash. “You want me to wash your hair, sweetheart?”
I think, then nod. My hair is full of sweat and dirt and blood. I let him tip my head back in the sink, carefully shampooing my scalp under the warm running water. His fingers are rough, but almost unbearably tender as he rinses away the grime. We don’t say much. I close my eyes, basking in his touch. One tiny thread of emotion tugs inside me, shining through the big cavernous emptiness in my brain.
“I love you,” I whisper, and he sighs and bends over me, pressing his mouth very gently to mine.
“The feeling’s mutual, lass.”
When I’m as clean as I’m going to get, Glen dries off my hair, then brings me one of his shirts and a pair of joggers. As we head back into the lounge, Kenta is setting out foil takeaway containers on the coffee table.
