I breathe out heavily, "Like shit."
He chuckles, "That's to be expected. Your body has been through quite the ordeal."
"What happened?" I ask.
The doctor glances nervously at the armed guard before looking at me, "What's the last thing you remember?"
Just being asked that question hurts.
Trying to recall the answer is nearly impossible. There are messy, vague memories. A boring old gala like any other. A visit to my dying mother in a hospital not unlike this one. Then older memories, of course. Being a child without ever getting to have a childhood. A beating from my dad, or worse, a session with him and his sick friends.
But the doctor doesn't give a fuck about any of that.
So I shrug, "I don't know. Maybe a day at work?"
"Work?" he presses, handing me my water to take another sip.
"Yeah, I own a liquor distilling company," I explain. That's not the only thing we do, but it's the one most people understand.
He nods again, "Balor."
I grin, "That's the one."
I take pride in my job. I built it from the ground up. Sure, it may not be the most ethical job in the world, creating something people become addicted to more than anything else. Maybe that's why that cop called me a drug smuggler? He wouldn't be the first guy to accuse me of it due to my job, but we make it a point to give back to the addiction support groups in our community and fight to keep alcohol away from at-risk youth.
"And then what?" The doctor jots something on my file, and I find myself pressing my fingers against my eyelids, trying to force some of the ache to subside manually.
"I don't fucking know." I tell him. "All I know is my head fucking hurts and there's a tattoo on my hand that wasn't there before."
"Your... tattoos?"
"Tattoos?" The room spins, and I wonder if I'm on the brink of falling back into the coma, followed by wondering if that would be a mercy.
The nameless doctor holds up his hands in a gesture that once again makes me feel as if I'm some escaped fucking zoo animal.
"It's very important that you remain calm, Cormac," he speaks so lowly that I have to quiet and slow my breathing to hear him. "Your brain and body are still on the mend."
"What the fuck happened to me?" I grit through my teeth, my voice more sinister than I ever remember it being.
"Watch it," the armed guard in the corner calls. It's the first thing he's said since entering, his tone heavy with the implication of consequences.
"He's fine." To my surprise, the doctor defends me, keeping his focus entirely on me and not the guard hidden in the shadows, waiting for the slightest provocation to attack. "Cormac, I know thismust be a very difficult time for you. You're confused, you don't feel well, I'm sure you're a little scared that an armed man is watching you."
"I'm notscared," I lie. "I'm pissed. What possible reason could there be for someone who can't hardly lift their god damn arm to have an officer watching them with one hand constantly on the gun in their waistband?"
The doctor sighs, pulling up a chair to sit beside me rather than stand over me.
The change makes my skin crawl. Whatever happened to me has to be terrible. So traumatizing that he needs to come down to my level to break the news, not as a doctor, but man-to-man.
"Cormac," he begins, placing my file on his lap. "You mentioned Balor. How long ago did you start your company?"
I blow out a breath, fighting to stay centered enough not to pass back out, "I started it when I was 23, I think?"
The doctor slowly nods, "How old are you now, Mr. Fomori?"
"I'll be 28 in February."
"February of this year?" he glances down at his papers before returning his blue eyes to me.
