Chapter Two
Ian felt so...strange. He remembered the riot and consequent assault with a clarity that made him wish he'd suffered a brain injury which would've granted him the gift of retrograde amnesia.
He could feel his face and the ribs that'd broken. Breathing hurt so much, almost as much as his heart still did, the way it had for the past five years. The monotony of prison life had dulled the pain to an extent where he could at least survive. The phrase 'live with it' didn't feel right and never could.
Eventually, he lapsed into a state of sleep, if he could call it that, and it was times like these where he dreamed.
He could see it clearly, Shaw's fall, and not for the first time, he desperately wished he'd jumped after him. He wished he'd died with Shaw, the way he'd lived with Shaw. He could hear himself calling his friend's name, and the latter's scream as he fell.
Friend? Why did he still think of Shaw as a friend, even after his death? It felt like too weak of a term, but he couldn't think of anything else that he could be comfortable with and still see himself as fit to live in society.
The dream was familiar to him, one he'd been having almost every night, when his guard was down. It invariably made him feel the same way, like some sizeable portion of himself had been ripped from him by the planks Shaw had fallen through, replaced by festering, infected splinters.
The scene around him faded into a new one, which was also familar, albeit less so than the preceding scene. In actuality, the scene was composed of several scenes, like a slide show, memories of the twenty years he'd shared with Shaw, the way he'd comforted him, made him feel safe, and that only made the pain worse, but he couldn't avoid the memories.
The memory reel ended, and he could feel himself returning to his body. His limbs felt heavy, and the bruises and broken ribs were moving out of the back of his mind; the pain was becoming unbearable. Gradually, he opened his eyes, and he could see a doctor standing over him with a clipboard and pencil in hand and scribbling something on a paper as he watched Ian. "Oh, you're awake," he said, glancing at Ian and scribbling another note on his paper.
He tried to open his mouth, but half of his face was in terrible pain, and even opening his mouth was painful.
"Looks like you need more morphine," the doctor said.
"No," Ian rasped, in spite of the pain. It was all he could do to stop himself to cringe afterward.
"Okay, then. Is there anything you do need?"
Even if he could open his mouth painlessly, saying the one thing on his mind at that moment could never be done with the same lack of feeling, so he just shook his head. The doctor nodded and walked out of the room, leaving Ian alone with his thoughts and the pain.