Chapter Two
I met the man who would kill me on a dark November night.
He saved my life.
"You needed seven stitches and you have a few nasty bruises, but other than that I believe you'll be perfectly fine. Oh, and the swelling of your tongue seems to have gone down slightly." The doctor announces. Not that I didn't already know about the bruises. I can see them clearly in the florescent light of the hospital room. They're immense and twisted, winding their way around my arms. They're hideous, not to mention their grotesque colour. Black and deep purple clash with the paleness of my skin, causing them to stand out like blueberry juice spilt on a white tablecloth.
I try to divert my attention from them and my eyes focus on Dean. He's talking with the doctor, answering her for me, because, well… I really can't speak with all these cotton balls stuffed in my mouth. They're quite difficult to maneuver around, and I truly don't feel like trying to talk at the moment. My tongue hurts – even with all the pain killers I had been given – I'm disoriented and tired, and I realize now that I am late for work.
Work – the cause of all my troubles this night. I had been late from the very beginning, my alarm clock failing me yet again as I tried to catch a small nap before my five hour shift at the bar. My tardiness had caused me to make the stupid decision to walk down a sinister alley in the middle of the night, and the rest is history. Work is the cause for all of this.
But I guess I can't blame everything on my job, like most people do. In fact, shouldn't I be blaming the two men who had tried to harm me? The two men who had attacked me while I had been walking down that sinister alley because I had been late for work? And to think that they're still out there. I suddenly shudder in the paper thin hospital gown I am dressed in.
In the back of my mind I know I should be freaking out right now. It seems like the proper thing to do, to run to the police and tell them everything – or at least try to – but I'm guessing shock is still numbing my thoughts, not to mention the lightheadedness obtained from the painkillers. The initial fear and panic I had felt in the alley has vanished. It has completely disappeared, and I feel sort of happy. Weird, I know, but it's like everything that has just happened to me is one big joke.
But now back to Dean, because he's staring at me strangely. I think it might be the small smile on my lips as I fight back the giggle tickling my throat. God I have such strange reactions to serious situations… I look down, hiding my smile until I can wipe it off my face, because I see that it's pretty inappropriate now. As I glance back Dean is now concentrated on the doctor, who seems to be speaking to me.
"I'll need you to come back to the hospital in a week to remove those stitches. As for your tongue, the swelling should reduce in a few days time. Just be very careful when you try to speak. You don't want to bite it again, and you'll have to drink a lot of liquids for the next couple of days. I recommend nutrition shakes. Other than that, you're free to leave."
She says this fairly quickly as I nod my head, one of my hands placed firmly over my mouth to block the exit of any escaping cotton balls. However, she doesn't wait to see my acknowledgement for she has already turned back to Dean. As he thanks her for her help, I watch as she looks up at him with large shiny eyes, as if Dean is the most angelic thing she has ever seen. Her hands are shuffling around, as if she wants to reach out and touch him but is unable to. The scene makes me nauseous, especially considering that a ring is glistening from her left wedding finger, but he returns her flirting gestures with a gentleman quality.
As she leaves the room – quite reluctantly – Dean turns back to me and I guess I can't blame the doctor for acting like a giddy schoolgirl in his presence. I mean, just looking at him causes my heart to speed up, but it's not merely his appearance. Sure, he's fit, with a body that looks incredibly amazing even when it's covered with a grey shirt and a leather jacket. His face is really nothing less than that of an angel and his height makes him look strong and capable, but there is something else…
And that's when I discover it – sort of – because I find myself checking out the colour of his irises as he stares at me. They are a greenish hazel, and when I somehow look deeper, I can see a hidden sorrow. It's faint, barely noticeable, but I can see it nevertheless, and it makes my heart ache.
"So," he says. "I guess we're not going to get the chance to talk." He smiles, kind of an unsure smirk, as if he's not certain if this is the right time to make jokes. I guess you could consider his statement a joke, for I had been unable to talk since we met. Besides my garbled answer to his inquiring question in the alley, he had done all the talking. My tongue is like a damp towel shoved in my mouth, enabling me to even spit out a single syllable.
Nonetheless, listening to Dean had been good enough as I tried to get my bearings. In his car, on the way to the hospital, he had introduced himself as Dean Thompson. Apparently he had been on his way to a friend's house when he had walked past the alley and spotted me in danger.
He hasn't revealed much else, not mentioning any details on how he managed to stop Tree Trunk – probably thinking I shouldn't have to hear it after all I went through - and I'm wondering if I'll ever know anything else. I'm also wondering if he is about to leave, but like an answer to my unasked question, he begins to walk toward me. I'm sitting on the end of the hospital bed and I watch him come closer but then quickly change his direction, noticing something on the counter to the right.
I turn my head to glimpse what he has spotted but his body is already concealing it as he picks it up. Suddenly he turns around and reveals a small notebook and a red pen. He's grinning as he hands them to me and I take the items gratefully, thankful to finally have a way to communicate with this man. After all, he did save my life. I think I am permitted to thank him.
"I already know your name," he says as he stands before me. I'm hunched over the paper as it rests on my lap, the pen gripped firmly in my right hand. "But what I'd like to know is why a pretty girl like you decides to walk down a dark alley in the middle of the night alone?"
I can feel my cheeks grow hot and am suddenly thankful for the long strands of black hair that conceal my face. I begin to scribble on the paper, having a hard time as I balance it on my lap, but finally manage to answer his question. I hold the notebook up for him to read and watch as his eyes flick back and forth as he scans my words.
"Work, huh?" he asks as a smirk appears on his face. "At midnight?"
I can tell that he thinks I'm lying, so I send him a warning glance and then write "I work at a bar" on a fresh piece of paper. He seems to understand, for now he's nodding his head. Before he can ask another question I scrawl my own in messy letters.
He reads it and laughs. "Tree Trunk? Is that what you call him?" He pauses for a moment, trying to answer my question as to how he stopped my 'would be killer' and sent him scurrying into the night. "Well, I guess I just had the advantage of surprise." He shrugs as if that's the best answer he can give and I accept it for now, but I know there's more to it.
I am about to write my profound "thank you" but he suddenly glances at the clock on the wall and a frown takes hold of his face. His expression is that of regret and I detect a genuine apology in the way the corners of his mouth are twisted down. "I have to go." He announces, his voice thick with unhidden disappointment. "What's the name of the bar you work at? Maybe I can come by in a few days, see that you're still all right."
I'm not sure at first, but then – silently scolding myself - I look down at the notebook and write "Three Hounds" in large, red letters anyway. He nods his head as he reads the name of the bar and then asks, "I guess I should come by late?" I nod my own head now and he shoves one of his hands in his pocket. "All right then," he says as he walks slowly backwards, toward the door. "Don't go down any dark alleys."
And then he's gone and I'm left in the white hospital room alone. I suddenly become aware of the coldness in the air again and look around for an open window but find none. Dressed solely in the embarrassing hospital gown, I reach for my pile of clothes lying on the bed and head to the washroom in the corner of the room. I'm surprised to find my green T-shirt blood free, but a few drops have soiled the front of my jeans. Luckily, they're barely noticeable.
Flicking on the washroom light I position myself in front of the mirror and prepare to look at myself for the very first time since I left my apartment two hours ago. What I see stuns me: Black, stringy hair hanging in knots around my face. Makeup smudged underneath sunken eyes. Hideous bruises wrapping themselves around my neck. Cotton balls protruding from cracked lips. I think of Dean and suddenly I want to laugh.
