he ran fingers over his cheeks, grunted at the painful realization that they were still there. Time slid by its grinding path outside, but it seemed to stall and die, in here.
The monotony was only broken by the meals that arrived on time every day, served neatly on his bedside table, complete with a styrofoam box, and plastic silverwear, or a nurse or doctor performing some medical necessity on his face. He grimaced in distaste at the slop that was pureed and in neatly scooped out domes on his tray, swirled a fork through it, debated slinging it at a wall. It was supposed to be easy to swallow, a very practical consideration of how much agony he would be in if he so much as moved his jaws wrong over the splintered skin. The stitches, at least, held admirably. They had sewn his tattered flesh together so neatly, that there was only "minimal damage" done to his body. Only a small and passing thing, he supposed, the loss of her,
the shattering of any semblance of normalacy, or even the ability to look at his image in a mirror and not want to vomit from the sight. His tongue danced over the threads on the inside of his cheek, and he worked his jaw uncomfortably at the sensation. Oh, yes, they had sewed him up like a quilt, so nicely patched, and pretty.
He raised a spoon, idled it in the dripping goo that was supposed to be 'scrambled eggs', and he stabbed it through the styrofoam, with a grimace.
It didn't matter that much, anyway. It hurt to eat. It hurt to breathe. Hell, it hurt to live at the moment. He pushed the bedside table away, and flopped back onto the bed.
His solitude was broken by the sound of the tech's cart rattling on battered wheels towards the door. His already considerably ill-temper soured more when he saw the gawking stare of disbelief lighting the tech's eyes as the tech quickly diverted his eyes and attention to the tray full of gauze, swabs and antiseptic.
Eyes narrowing, and his mouth twisting itself as far as he could without too much pain, he scowled and warily glared at the tech. "And what is this?" His voice was a low, questioning hiss as he inched away. The tech raised an eyebrow, sighed, and waved a hand over the various bottles,
"Disinfectant, and an anti-biotic to prevent your...stitches from becoming infected. I have to check for inflamation, as well at sensation to make sure the skin is healing right. So, if you'd lay back, I'll get to it."
The information was delivered in a bored tone as the tech was already prepping the gloves after scrubbing his hands with disinfectant. He bowed his head, slid his eyes upwards, considering, before he grit his teeth, forced himself downward on his back. He tried to stop the shiver at the realization of how vulnerable he was,
laying helpless, and exposed, and about to endure the sensation of somebody actually touching his face. Closing his eyes, he fisted his hands into the hem of the hospital gown and endured the suddenly horrible waiting with his heart surging and his mind racing from the memories of what a human hand had done to him.
The tech's hand dabbled something cold and wet with the swab over the stitches, swirling them over the thread, gently. It felt like her caress, and he grit his teeth to stop the sob. The tech only stared at the reaction, the bone-jarring flinch, the way his face crumbled as if he were expecting a blow. The tech paused in his work, considering, before speaking. "It's my understanding that you've been through quite a trauma, sir. I understand why you would never want to have your face touched again. Unfortunately, this has to be done to prevent any more damage. If it's too much, I can wait?"
He panted, shaking his head, and exhaling a long held breath. "No..just get this over with as soon as possible. As for the damage..." he snickered.
"If the damage can't be undone, then what the hell is a little more to deal with?" The tech did not deem it necessary to answer the dark musing as he lay back down on the bed, turned his cheek towards the guaze, and waved a hand in permission to continue. The tech swabbed at the stitches, carefully avoiding any sudden movements. It mattered little, though. His patient had his burning dark eyes shut from pain that was far more than just skin. The tech continued on the other cheek, and brightly supplied, "They're healing up well. You should be able to get the stitches taken out soon."
"Is that so?" The words were so weary as his patient idly slid a hand over his cheeks, whispering, "Do you think that I'll heal up enough that I have no scars?
Do you think there's enough drugs in the world to get some oblivion from this?" The tech bit his lip. "Sir? I think only you can answer that." He neatly discarded gloves and guaze into the trash, and lingered a moment after he had finished returning all the medical apparatus to their places. "I'll be back later to rebandage the deeper cuts. Have a nice day." The tech turned on his heel and wheeled the cart away, leaving his patient to uselessly brood, eyebrow quirking at the absurdity of his passing remark.
Have a nice day?! Of course, I'll have a nice day. As soon as I fart angels and everybody else has their face sliced up as neat as lunch meat. Of all the damn things to say...
So, the days passed. He was curtly polite when he had to speak, only answered what had to be answered, ate what had to be eaten to sustain life, and mostly curled up in his bed til it cocooned him from the world, resenting the time outside passing, but finding himself so bitter and pissed off at the state of his life, that he could do no more.
If they had just left him the hell alone about his scars..if they had just let him go, if he was just allowed to forget...the attack might have never happened, and the dark path to hell might have been completely averted. Apparently, it was an unnatural reaction to such trauma to hole up in his room, or it was the wrong reaction to be less than thrilled when offered a "therapy session." He dismissed that outright with a sarcastic salute of his middle finger raised high and proud in the reddening, and irrate doctor. He allowed a coy smirk, and shook his head, laughing until the cackle broke into a sob, and he continued the cackle until the doctor tensed, and hastily exited the room. Wiping away the tears, he slumped again, tilting his head and wondering, not for the first time if he was as insane as they were trying to convince him he was. No matter. At least then, he might get the good pills.
It was his refusal to have the stitches removed that triggered the first episode. Between the dark dreams of the attack, and the insomnia, the haunted life he could never regain, and the broken future, it churned in his gut, as the thoughts and the memories were ressurected and poisoned the little bit of good sense he had left.
He was a wrecked, hollow shell, ready to be filled with whatever made him feel safe, and sane again. In his case, it was the discovery of how sharp the plastic handles of the spoons could be, if he whittled them down for a few hours, merticulously planning to shave them down to the slimmest point. In his mind, he conned himself, justified it, as he cradled the gleaming white piece of plastic in his hand and stared blankly at the walls. He knew he simply could not stand the thought of a knife in his hand...it was just too much. But, the homemade shank that he kept tucked in the hem of his gown was quite a convient thing. It was small..not much longer than his hand, and easily concealed, but it was shaved down to a sharp, deadly point, if he felt the need for it.
It was that day that he was scheduled to have the stitches removed. There was no explanation, no real informed consent, or any resemblance of it, just the announcment that the doctor was there to remove the stitches, and suddenly...there she was, standing over him, the gleaming surgical scissors against his chin. All he knew was that he was nearly crying from mind-numbing terror, as he lay sprawled and helpless with the metal so cold against his cheek. Cowering, pleading, and laying there like a dumbass only resulted in his current predicament. All he knew was that time froze, his blood froze, everything inside was insidiously chilled and numb until his groping fingers fell upon the salvation in the form of the shank. Shuddering, he suddenly flung arms wide in panic, and the doctor lurched back with a startled cry, the metal tray clattering to the floor, her hand cupped over the thin red line of blood trickling down the side of her face. Horrified, he held the shank out, trembling. He let it fall to the floor in numb, blind anguish. "I'm so sorry..." Her blood felt hot against his cold fingers, and he shivered at the sensation.
"I didn't mean"
It was the first and last apology that ever fell from his lips. Less than 20 seconds later, the room was flooded over with the burly orderlies, complete with the gurney efficiently lined with straps and a gleaming needle of thorozine. And all he could do was stand there with her blood on his hands, staring. It was over with before it truly began, it being such a one-sided fight. All he knew was that he was standing upright one moment, and the next, he was being swept downward by a flood of hands on him, holding him down, forcing him to be still, wrapping him in straps as if he were some odd present. All he felt was the numbing ice of the sedative as the nurse hastily plunged the needle hilt deep into his thigh.
NO!!
He lingered, tortured by the hazy, sluggish warmth that was overcoming him, the instinctive terror of being held down and having so many standing over him, just watching him. He grit his teeth, fighting the drowning as hard as he could, panting at the strain and trying not to shriek when he felt himself gently melting into the bed like water falling down a hillside. He lost the battle after a few more moments, allowed his head to lull uselessly, as his eyes slid shut, and everything in the world went still.