JAKOB
My eyes open slowly, and the world resolves by degrees—a hazy wash of light, then whiteness, then a blurry slice of the world, and then I can see a hospital room. A chair, empty; ceiling tiles. The weird stuff on the walls that does who-knows-what. A window, the blinds closed, daylight peeking through the gaps.
A hospital?
I'm in a hospital? What happened? It's all vague and fuzzy. I have hazy impressions of things—a long walk through a tunnel filled with giant rats and spiders, which is surely a figment of my imagination; a giant press, gunfire…
And Brys.
Her eyes on mine, soft and afraid and worried.
"Brys," I mumble.
"Hey, I'm here." I hear her voice from my right side, sleep-thick. "I'm here."
I turn my head on the pillow, and there she is. Honey-blonde hair has come free of the braid to drape in a wavy cascade down her shoulders and chest. She's absolutely filthy. Her jeans are ripped and caked in dirt and bits of…bone? Her T-shirt is similarly soiled, caked with dirt and blood and god-knows-what.She has dirt and grime and blood smeared on her cheeks and forehead. Even her lovely hair is begrimed.
Yet she's here, in this hospital room with me, passed out in a hard plastic chair. After going through a hell I cannot imagine.
"You—" I break off with a cough, my throat dry and scratchy.
"Here," she mumbles, nudging the rolling tray-table-cart-thing over my lap, on which is a Styrofoam cup and straw. She sits forward and holds the cup for me. "Drink."
I want to guzzle and gulp, but I know better from heroin detox. You vomit and vomit and vomit and shake and shiver, and you're so fucking thirsty, but you can barely manage to keep a single sip down. So you take a mouthful and let the roof of your mouth, your teeth, your gums, and your throat soak up the water, swish it around until it’s warm in your mouth, andthenyou swallow it. Quenches real thirst far faster than gulping ever will—gulping will only make you feel worse anyway. Sloshy belly feeling, anyone?
Life pro-tip: don't do heroin. The high is like touching God, the crash and subsequent cravings are the most miserable existence you can imagine, and detox is even worse.
When I've sipped and swished and swallowed to satiety, I let my head fall back against the pillow. "Thank you, Brys."
"Yes, Jay—” she breaks off, blushing. "Sure, of course."
I laugh, which hurts like a bitch. "Oh god, don't make me laugh, please. Oh god, ow." I catch my breath. "I know what you were about to say."
Her blush is scarlet and endearing. "Jakob, don't."
"How can I not?"
"How are you feeling?" she asks.
I let her change the subject for now. "Kind of a silly question, is it not? I was shot, Brys. That's how I feel."
"You lost a lot of blood. Like, aLOTa lot. The wound itself wasn't that bad, apparently, but you lost so, so much blood. Like,close to forty percent. Over forty percent is irreversible, or so I’m told.”
"Well, the so-called bandage they slapped on wasn't much better than a band-aid, and the drive to that hellhole was pretty long."
"I don't want to talk about that place, Jakob." Her voice is low and shaking with intensity. "It was worse than…" she shudders all over. "I'd rather have brains blown out in front of me—oronme—than go anywhere near that fucking nightmare ever again."
“Onyou?" I ask
She tells me about being dragged—or rather thrown—out of the car, the fight, and almost being shot in the face before Nico saved her.
"I'm sorry, Brys," I whisper, shaking my head, dropping my gaze to my lap. "I am so, so sorry. For everything. For running into you in that alley. For using you as a distraction. Pulling you into all this. You don't deserve any of what's happened—none of it."
"You couldn't have known what would happen."
"Yes, I could have. I should have. I should have known better."
"You want to make it up to me, Jakob?"
