Of course, once he opens his eyes, all hell has to break loose again. Because why could anything be easy about this week?
Chapter Seven
Savage
When I wake up this time, I feel more like a human. I remember pretty quickly what happened before, and Bambi is right there in the kitchen, moving with fluid grace as he hums to himself and fixes some food, confirming that it wasn’t all a weird, contradictory dream.
I have an entire two minutes of peace before I start to feel… off.
There’s a twitchiness inside me that becomes more and more apparent as I become more awake. But it’s been such a shitty week, it takes me longer to recognize it than it normally would.
This isn’t the twitchiness of panic setting in, or residual self-hatred taking itself out on my body because it has nowhere else to go. This is purely physical. This is my individual muscles jolting like they’ve each been touched by a battery at random intervals.
My fingers twitch, and then my hands, and then I connect all the dots.
My meds.This is what happens when I forget to take my meds for too long.
The last time this happened, I was stuck on a “simple” job that turned into a three-day operation. I couldn’t go home, and I obviously couldn’t tell anyone what was wrong because gangsters barely take medicine for physical illness. Taking mental healthmeds? Yeah, that’s a death sentence in the eyes of my father and brethren, I’m sure.
That’s the ultimate sign that I’ve cracked and am no longer one of them.
After I spent the last day of that job sweating, twitching, feeling dizzy, disoriented and paranoid—and ultimately snorting a little crank, which I fucking hate, to be able to power through—I got smart. I bought a little keychain fob thing that looks discreet, but unscrews and has a space to shove some extra pills.
None of the guys have noticed it yet, but I’m hoping if they do, they assume it’s some kind of retro eighties coke spoon situation. That’s kind of cool.
No, it’s an emergency three-day stash of my motherfucking psych meds.
But is it here? Or am I completely, utterly fucked? It’s been days since I’ve been shot, which means the withdrawal already has its claws in my body and I’ve just been too fucked up to notice.
Once again, because I’m a wreck of a human being, this realization is followed by a surge of panic taking over my body. My stomach lurches and adrenaline tingles in my fingers, my heart pounds and I’m dragging my broken body off the couch before I’m consciously aware of making the decision.
It hurts. I ache everywhere as well as the throbbing pain in the wounds themselves, but I feel a lot better than last time, and at least now I’m not connected to any fucking tubes like last time.
Micah
I know Tadhg’s awake because there’s an abrupt sound of things tumbling to the ground, and I’m immediately prepared for a repeat of what happened last time.
But I’m surprised by how he looks. He’s wide-eyed and a little panicked, which isn’t a shock at this point, but his color is good. His movement is somewhat coordinated, and he’s not nearly as weak as he was before he knocked out around half a day ago.
It’s clear that the antibiotics have finally had the chance to do their job. The infection is rolling back, his vitals are normalizing, and he’s had enough fluids to replace the lost blood volume.
Which is all great news. If only he could keep from panicking long enough for me to tell him. I have no idea what he’s been through in the last twelve years without me, but it must have been worse than whatever I was picturing. He’s a mess. He’s not just acting like someone who’s been brainwashed into a life of violence, this is someone on full sensory red alert at all times.
I was a panicky kid in a scary home. I was wobbly and flighty, like a baby deer. Hence, Bambi.
Right now, Tadhg seems more like one of those old bobcats that’s been freed from an illegal backyard zoo. Equal parts angry and afraid, but too weak from spending a lifetime in its tiny, chain-link cage to do anything but throw itself against the wall in terror. Too traumatized to accept help, but also too mutilated to survive in the wild on its own.
I don’t know why that’s the image that my mind conjures. It’s just the most accurate parallel I can think of as I watch him try to haul his trembling, fragile body onto the ground. I want to reach for him. I think he’s trying to stand up, but if he keeps up all this jerky movement, he’s going to tear his wound again and undo all the healing he just did.
But I also don’t want to catch a fist, and I’m aware that he could be so blinded by panic right now that he might not even realize it’s me. And I don’t want to point out that he seems to be having some sort of extended panic reaction, because his ego has already taken a beating today and I don’t trust its structural integrity right now, based on what I’ve seen.
Instead, I approach slowly with my hands outstretched. He’s managed to get his feet under him, with one hand on the couch taking his weight while the injured one clumsily untangles the blanket from around him.
“Whoa,” I say quietly, trying to get his attention. “What’s up?”
His gaze is swiping from side to side like a searchlight, and I can see him totally focused on whatever it is that’s gotten him moving. I gently wrap my hand around his free elbow and disentangle the last part of the blanket. He’s dressed only in boxers and bandages, and between me holding one arm and the couch supporting the other, he’s able to very shakily stand up for the first time since he was dragged into my apartment.
Fuck, he got tall. And jacked. Not like a gym bro with perfectly articulated muscle definition, or enormous like a bodybuilder. But the kind of whole-body muscle and bulk that comes with usable power.
