For what could have been mere minutes or all of an eternity, Chase lay prone on the floor of the hotel room, looking at the dull blue carpet with wide open eyes. Those eyes weren't truly seeing, his vision unfocused at a distance as he stared past the meaningless pattern of static that made up the floor. Instead, he was thinking, strings of words sparking between neurons, bits and pieces that would have been incoherent had he tried to voice them aloud. But even now, the only sounds that left his mouth were pants, gasps, and other distorted sounds of undeniable pain.
Every time he tried to move, something ached or burned with a fierce intensity. His face, his back, his knees, his chest, every part of his body was screaming in white-hot agony. That mental list was excluding the places where he had been most terribly violated, places which were still hurting with a pain that he couldn't quantify with mere words. The pain had regressed from blinding and indescribable, from an all-consuming fire, to an incredible burning ache. It wasn't the physical pain that had left him paralyzed, it was the hollow feeling in his gut, as though the trauma had shattered his heart into a thousand pieces.
It was as though the ghosts of Lowell's rough hands were still on his body, still around his throat, still pulling at his hair. The spot in his back where the older doctor's knee had pressed down on him was aching severely, and Chase almost felt as though that weight were still oppressing him, forcing him downwards into a hell where the only sensation was pain. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to try and bring his heart rate down, a heart rate that was jumping at an incredible staccato.
More time passed, just enough time to allow Chase to begin breathing again, and for the ringing in his ears to become somewhat bearable. After what must have been more than twenty minutes of silent suffering, Chase struggled to his knees, and then to his feet. He relied heavily on the wall for support, running his hand across the textured paper before practically falling into the bathroom, one that was a mere three steps away. With a trembling hand he flicked on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness that seemed to scald his eyes. But there was no strength left to cry out at the surprise of the sensation, and he did nothing more than shy away from the light, trying desperately to avoid any further pain. But after blinking, he adjusted to the whiteness that filled the room, and was able to open his eyes once more.
At first, he turned his back to the mirror, nauseated by the glimpse he had caught of his face, which was already red, purple, and swollen. Instead he focused his attention to his clothes, looking down at the wrinkled mess they had become. His pants were scored at the knees from the prolonged contact with the cement around the pool, and his shirt was wrinkled, some of the buttons across the chest strained, as though they were threatening to pop off. His tie was off center, and disgusted by the mess that he had become, he ripped the tie off first, and then hastily unbuttoned the shirt. He discarded the fabric to the white tiled floor, kicking off his shoes as he went.
Despite how painful it was, he carried on with his undershirt, and then stripped off his pants as quickly as possible, trying to forget how Lowell's hands had felt as they had performed the same task so roughly, fingernails scoring across the bare skin of his hips. How the humid air of the room had caressed his bare skin earlier in the night, and he had been left to try to recover from the mess he had become. Growling at the memory, he continued with the task of removing his pants, cursing his memory for capturing everything in vivid sensation. At the same time, he yanked down his undergarments, hissing as felt the strain from the movement across his back and hips. Biting down on his lips, he looked towards the ceiling, afraid to face what might be awaiting him. But as the pain still radiated, he resigned himself to the task, and looked at the fabric. It took only a moment to bring him to sigh again, groaning as he choked back a sob, trying to ignore the burning of his eyes.
His worst fears were confirmed as he saw the drying crimson smeared across the light blue fabric, his own blood stains from the injuries caused by the trauma. Though he had felt pain, incredible pain, he never imagined it would have been so bad that there was tearing, that there was bleeding. But it seemed that he would not be spared from the worst degrees of horror, even as he retreated to his room, even as he tried to heal. This had quickly evolved into an event that he could not forget, and would never be able to forget, one that held serious, and potentially deadly, consequences.
Swallowing, Chase realized that there was nothing he could do. Going for help wasn't an option. His body was hollowed from the event, his soul already shattered from the invasion, as though he had died and returned as only half a spirit. There were phantoms more real than he felt at that moment, with the heavy blows to his head, the sound of gentle grunting, the rough thrusts, all playing on repeat in his mind, like a broken record. The memories may as well have been made of glass, for Chase felt his eyes burn with the threat of tears as he stared at the blood again. The red swam in his vision, as though it were blood across white snow, an indication of the crimes that had stolen away innocence and purity.
In one swift motion he kicked the clothes away, stumbling over to the shower. He was far too sickened by the sight to look at it any longer without vomiting. It took a few moments of fumbling with the knobs to eventually coax water from the showerhead, but soon enough it was streaming from the wall at incredibly high temperatures. The steam was billowing almost immediately, and not caring how the water was splashing across the tiles of the bathroom floor, Chase stepped in, his hair already hanging limp around his face.
The water scorched his back, but Chase couldn't help but sigh in relief at this new sensation. If water could somehow burn away the sins that had devastated his body, there was some chance that he could still be saved. The thought of salvation and purity invigorated him, sending some of the trembles racing away, allowing him to stand a bit easier. This false security, the fantasy temptations of heavenly relief were soothing him for the time being, which was going to have to be enough. With clumsy hands, Chase groped for the soap that had been sitting on the ledge, and quickly ran it across his body.
Soap bubbles washed down the drain with the ribbons of steaming water, and for just a moment, Chase felt as though he could breathe without restriction. There was a chance that he could wash away the memories, wash away the cruel touch, wash away the terrible trauma. As quickly as he could manage in his weakened state, Chase scrubbed the soap vigorously across every inch of his body, feeling the cool block kiss his skin gently, promising to take away the pain.
But even as the bar of soap fell away into nothing across his skin as he rubbed it, the pain, the sensation of touch, those things remained, just as vividly as when he began the frenzied ritual. The memories were still as bright as the noon sun, blinding his mind to anything else. The shortened breaths returned, the anxiety overwhelming him in an oppressive wave. Suddenly he found himself unable to bear the heat of the water, which had turned his back incredibly red and raw. Chase stepped out of the shower, clutching for the towel hung above the toilet with a quivering hand, hardly able to hold onto the soft fabric.
Wrapping it around himself, Chase stumbled back into the main room, collapsing in the chair in front of the wooden desk. The lamp was still on from when he had sat there earlier, working on the presentation that he was scheduled to give tomorrow afternoon. For the first time in more than an hour, Chase felt his lips form a smile, a smile brought on by nothing other than the lack of understanding of how to process these new emotions. He had no other way to process his thoughts, and his mouth had defaulted to a wry grin as he stared at the scene before him.
Earlier, he had had no idea what was going to happen, just what was going to be stolen from him by a man he hardly knew. He had only been worried about this stupid paper, the stupid presentation, such stupid, petty little things. Then his world had come crashing down, his body battered, his whole soul stolen away in a matter of minutes. An apocalypse of the mind and body, utter obliteration of what he was. The notes scribbled in the margins of a half-typed paper seemed distant now, as though they were written by someone else entirely.
'Someone else' meaning someone who was innocent, someone who was pure. Who hadn't felt what Chase had felt, been through what he had been through. He was still reeling from the reality of what he had been through. It was a reality that he was still trying to vehemently deny, despite the memories that told him the truth with utterly express clarity. Those notes, worrying over how to phrase a few thoughts on diagnostics, they were nearly foreign to him now. They were from a time long past, written by a person who had never truly suffered.
But as he stared at his own work for a bit longer, Chase realized that those notes were just as important as they had been earlier in the day. Just because he had suffered through horrors, that didn't mean his life would stop, that the earth would stop spinning. He was all too aware of the ER procedures for those who had suffered similarly to himself, and before this night, he had just felt pity for them. But now he could understand that hollow look they always had in their eyes, the way they drew their knees up to their chests and couldn't even think about looking anyone in the eyes. Now, as he was gasping for breath, aching on every square inch of his body, he truly understood why those victims looked like the living dead.
Overwhelmed with a sick feeling at the recollection, Chase reached out his hand, and grabbed for his cell phone out of mere instinct. He had left it sitting on his desk during the talk, and it was still there. He gripped it in his hands, flipping it open, staring at the small screen that glared so brightly back at him. His thumbs hovered over the keys, but he realized that they didn't know where to go. He couldn't think of a single number to call, a single voice that could bring him comfort.
Of course, the thought of calling someone brought back the threats that Lowell had whispered into his ear following the trauma. More than just the threat of death if he was found to tell, another happening similar to the one he had suffered, and disbelief. It was the idea of disbelief that terrified Chase the most. He went over the story again in his head, and nearly cried out. What Lowell had said was true; if he ever spoke a word of this to anyone, they would fail to believe him. The thought of another doctor doing to him what had been done was utter fiction, and the words would make him sound as though he were insane, accusatory.
If he were to even try to confess to what had happened to him, there would be nothing resonating except for disbelief. Perhaps even laughter would await him at the other end of the line, if he had tried to call anyone, if anyone would even be bothered to pick up so late at night. Choking back a sob, Chase gave the phone one last forlorn look before shutting it, the light disappearing.
He tossed it back onto the desk, and took a few deep breaths as he looked away from the device. It seemed that most of the shaking that had overwhelmed his body had stopped, although the pain had far from ceased. Blinking a few times as he groaned, Chase stood, turning his back to the presentation that he was supposed to be working on. His suitcase lay on the couch, and he rooted through it for clean boxers and a t-shirt.
It was painful to yank them on, but he was able to push through the pain long enough to make himself decent again. Sighing once more, his battered body covered with the smooth fabric, Chase moved back to the bathroom, finally looking in the mirror with a weak serving of courage. With the t-shirt covering his chest, he was positive that most of the bruises from the body blows were covered, and would pose no issue in the following days of healing. The only problems left were the imprints on his neck, and the swollen mess that had come to nearly engulf his left eye.
Realizing that such a poor personal appearance had no place at the review he was going to give the next afternoon, Chase bit down on his lip and grabbed the small bucket from beside the hotel sink. He yanked on the pants that had laid on the bathroom floor, kicking away the underwear that had the bloodstains, trying to ignore how they churned his stomach. Easing on the shoes, Chase gave himself a look in the mirror, trying to ignore the fact he looked like a college kid who just got in a bar fight. With a final deep breathe, he moved out into the hallway, the bucket in hand.
It was a long journey to the ice machine at the end of the hall opposite his own, and the entire time, it felt as though he were about to be attacked. Almost as though a man were standing behind his shoulder with each step he took, as though another pair of hands were about to wrap around his throat and choke him until he couldn't draw air. But there wasn't another soul out in the hallway, no footsteps, no sound of elevator doors opening. He was utterly alone, but still felt as though he were seconds away from utter destruction. It was enough to drive him mad.
Warily, Chase let ice pour into the bucket from the machine, and the very second it was full, he moved to retreat his room, just as warily as before. Once again, the passage through the hall occurred without incidence, and Chase was able to find solitude in his room once more.
Taking a towel from beside the sink, Chase wrapped the ice in the pristine white fabric, and held it to his eye, nearly wincing from the touch alone. He was thankful that there had been only one punch to his face, that the rest had been focused on his skull and his body, where the bruises would not show. A single swollen eye, bruised and damaged, could always be explained by sheer stupidity. A night in a bar gone bad was as valid an explanation as any, anything at all except for the horrifying truth.
It was the dark lines on his neck that seemed more suspicious, those dark blue fingerprints that marked themselves into his skin like tattoos. Though a bar fight could attribute to the same, it seemed nearly unbelievable, far more unlikely. Most drunken fights were fought with knuckles, not with fingers wrapped around throats. Even still, he could feel the lie about to roll off his lips, a perfect rehearsal. Staring himself in the one good eye in the silver of the mirror, Chase muttered the words to himself softly.
"I just got into a little bar fight. The guy was being an idiot, and I told him off. He didn't like that, and the bloody idiot went and punched me" he told himself, watching his lips move as the words came out. They sounded almost as though they had come from the mouth of another person, the sickly lie and excuse for what had transpired. And for a moment, Chase almost believed himself, before the memories came flooding back.
He couldn't bear to look at himself any longer. He moved back to the desk, pressing the cool towel to his eye, hoping that the swelling and bruising would fade from their currently vivid shade. With the towel in his left hand, and the pen in his right, he began reading over the presentation again. After all, there was nothing else he could do. The words filled his mind, blocking out the memories, no matter the fact that they were as loud as thunder.
For the patient, it seemed that they were suffering from three completely unrelated symptoms, which could not be explained, even in accounting for unusual presentations of likely ailments…
Thank you all so much for the incredible support I have on this story already! It's amazing how many follows, favorites, and reviews I got on just one chapter. To all of you, thank you! Now though this chapter may have been a bit dull, I promise, Chase's troubles aren't over yet. He still believes he has been through the worst, but he doesn't know what lies ahead... I'll be posting the next chapter (an exciting chapter!) quite soon. Thanks for sticking with me, hope you enjoy!
