I need to get up. I try to roll over and bite back a shout as pain flames up from my knee. It’s blinding, yanking up to my groin, making my vision black out and my heart pound.
Shit. I collapse back onto the mattress, panting for air.
One of those days then.
This happens sometimes. Not often. Not anymore. In the first few years after the injury, my leg would sometimes give out for days. Even weeks. Weeks of lying sweating in bed, not being able to move without yelling.
Nowadays, it’s rare that it hurts so bad I can’t get up.
I still hate it.
Heaving myself up onto my elbow, I grab my phone from the nightstand, stabbing at it. Immediately, a notification blinks at me from last night.
SUMMER
I hope you feel better soon *heart emoji*
I stare at the heart. It’s pink with sparkles around it. Something flutters under my ribcage.
Hmm.
I bring up Alec’s contact and type out a quick message.
Need the day off.
Then I drop the phone and fall back onto my mattress. And I wait.
Barely two minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. Before I can answer, Alec pushes inside, pale from the cold. He takes one look at me and his face falls. “Shit,” he says.
I grit my teeth. “It’s fine.”
He crosses the room towards me. “It’s notfine. You’re in pain?—”
I don’t have the energy for this. “It’s. Fine. Go.”
“Do you need anything?” he says, ignoring me. “Painkillers? I can see if Dr Kenzie can drive up from the village to see you?”
“And say what?” I mutter. “Your leg is screwed, try not to overdose on paracetamol?” I’ve long since stopped trusting doctors. They have no idea how to help me.
Originally, after the accident, doctors said I would heal completely. I had a couple of surgeries done on my knee, and they were confident I’d make a full recovery. And at first, it seemed like they were right.
Until I started getting these spells of pain. They’d cut my knee out from under me, keep me in bed for days. Doctors didn’t know why. My scans were clean. I spent years trying steroid injections and painkillers and massage and nerve stimulation and CBT and God knows what else. None of it worked. And itwas miserable to keep trying. To hope, and spend weeks in bed recovering from surgery, and for there to be no change.
So eventually, I quit. Just accepted that I am someone whose leg hurts most of the time. And everything got a million times easier. Nowadays, I work. I cook. I look after the animals. I have a good life. Even if some days are shit, most aren’t, and that’s more than a lot of people can say.
Alec doesn’t seem to get that. “I’ve found another specialist surgeon,” he says. “In America. She’s meant to be the best. I think we should fly out for a consultation.”
I close my eyes. “I told you. I’m not letting them cut me up anymore.”
“Cameron, please. We haven’t tried everything. I need to fix this.”
Fix this. Fix it.
The pain that flares up in me at those words hurts a damn sight more than my knee. “Go,” I say roughly.
“But—”
I snap. “Getout,” I roar. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to talk to you!”
