Seven years ago...
“Today’s the day, little brother. You’re getting out of here.”
Justin walked in, his smile bright, but not enough to reach his eyes. We both knew I wasn’t free. Sure, I was being released from the hospital, but I wasn’t going home.
Not yet.
It had been six months since that warehouse exploded with me in it. Six months of being poked and prodded, drained of what felt like every ounce of blood my body had.
Then there were the skin grafts.
Weeks of having skin thinly sliced from the areas that hadn’t been burned, as if I were a turkey breast in a deli. Layers laid over layers, praying it would adhere.
Every fucking day nurses and care assistants had their hands on me, touching me, massaging me. Rubbing lotion into the new skin to keep it hydrated. Because of my tattoos, there weren’t enough areas of my own skin to use for grafting, so the doctors used donor skin.
Not all of it took. My body rejected a fair amount, so the grafting took longer than it should have.
I begged my brother to get me out of here. But he refused. Told me I was stuck until the doctors released me. And the day was finally here.
From here it was a rehabilitation facility. Physical therapy, scar management. They said it would be years before the skin was fully healed.
And even then, I might never have full mobility.
Seventy-five percent of my chest was burned in the blast. My left arm, leg, and shoulder were scarred for life. A dailyreminder that my best friend had conspired with my president to kill me.
“How is she?” I asked.
Justin sat on the bed beside me. His eyes met mine, and I saw his weariness. He’d been here every day checking in on me.
After the initial assessment, once I was stable, he had me moved to a private hospital in upstate New York. I was hours from the city, but my brother drove it every day.
“I need to tell you something.”
My body stiffened, and I winced. The new skin pulled every time I moved. The itching as it healed would likely drive me insane if it got any worse than it was now.
“What?”
“She lost the baby.”
“What?”
“A few days after the explosion.”
I shook my head, ignoring the way the skin pulled at my neck.
“I saw her pregnant. You showed me pictures,” I reminded him.
“Photoshop.” Justin sighed, and I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. He lied to me. He told me she was okay; she was safe.
“You motherfucker!” I stood up, my joints stiff.
“I had to, Jude. I was losing you.”
“You should have let me go.” I curled my hands into fists. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to pound his ass into the floor. But I didn’t have the strength nor the muscle to take him on. Not right now.
“I couldn’t let you die!” he shouted, tears in his eyes. “You’re all I fucking have. I can’t do this shit without you by my side.”
“This shit is going to get you killed,” I growled. “It almost got me fucking killed.”
