Chapter 4: Happily Never After

EMTs fought to save Gwen, who was having a deadly reaction to the sedative Adam had injected her with. The next five minutes whirled by in a blur of flashing lights and screeching sirens for Arthur.

Paramedics were trying to treat him, but he kept swatting them away. He yelled at them to devote all their resources to saving his girlfriend.

Arthur rode in the ambulance as they raced to the hospital. He couldn't fully understand the medical jargon that the paramedics were pitching back and forth, but he knew that the charging of a defibrillator never meant anything good. Her shirt was cut off with scissors. They placed one pad just below her collar bone and the other at her side.

Her chest jumped with the force of the electric charge that was delivered, but it didn't seem to be helping. They added meds to an IV that fed into her arm. They continued to deliver bolts of electricity. None of it seemed to matter. Arthur could not believe that after all they had been through, he was going to lose her.

Her gurney was unloaded from the back of the ambulance. Doctors and nurses rushed out to meet the paramedics. There was more tossing back and forth of Latin and Greek as they rolled Gwen into the hospital. He asked questions in a state of utter panic but received answers with no real clarity.

Arthur chased after the gurney that was speeding down the fluorescently lit halls. Every step he took felt like he was running a marathon in quarter ton boots. Pain consumed his chest and abdomen, but he continued to push himself forward. He was wheezing for air and fighting to keep up with the gurney that was getting away from him.

Before long, Arthur had breached a set of double doors he was not allowed to cross. They ushered him out of this restricted area. The world began to spin, a blinding blur of florescent lights and faces. He collapsed in the arms of the nurses. With adrenaline fading, it became clear that Arthur was in serious trouble.

Soon he was on his own gurney. The nurses cut off his shirt and sliced off the iron lid that covered his chest. He was one giant purple bruise beneath. Arthur looked like a plum with legs. The iron lid had saved his life by stopping the bullets, but it was no Kevlar vest. It deflected the bullets but did little to absorb the shock of being blasted with high velocity rounds.

In the movies a bullet could be stopped by little more than the hero's dog tags, as his muscles flex beneath a ripped shirt, and his fabulous hair flutters in the breeze. Catching a bullet would have absolutely no effect on the good guy. It wouldn't even leave a mark.

In the real world the laws of physics apply. Arthur had broken ribs, it was difficult to breath, and blood was pooling under his skin. When the doctor flashed a light in Arthur's eyes this showed how unevenly dilated his pupils were. This was a sign of a possible concussion. When Arthur and Gwen had leapt behind the bar he'd struck his head on something. His body was so heavily saturated with adrenaline that he didn't notice at the time.

Arthur was sluggishly shoving the doctors away, speaking gibberish, and trying to return to his girlfriend. Medical personnel continued to treat Arthur, despite his delirious protests. They were used to such behavior from mothers who were in collisions with their children in the back seat, and husbands who were in the wake of a natural disaster with their wives. It is the human heart that makes us lose sight of self-preservation when loved ones are at risk. Therefore, the doctors must step in and treat people who lacks concern for themselves.

They took him for x-rays, scans, and bloodwork. A few stitches closed the gash in his scalp, and nurses monitored his concussion. They would tell him about Gwen when he was well, but now was not the time.

Arthur was covered in cold white hospital sheets and a poor excuse for a blanket. Part of him wondered why no one had brought news of his girlfriend's condition, while another part wondered why hospitals were always so freezing cold. It felt like he was in a drawer at the morgue rather than a bed.

He was given medication to take the edge off his pain. An IV drip provided hydration. He was instructed to rest but wanted out of this bed. He needed to see Gwen. Arthur had seen how bad things were in the ambulance, but some irrational part of him was still hoping for a storybook ending. He'd slain the dragon and rescued the damsel. That meant she had to survive. After all this suffering, a long happy life together was the only ending that made sense to Arthur.

He pushed the call button on his remote. He wasn't Gwen's husband, but he was her emergency contact. That should grant him some information.

A nurse entered fifteen minutes later, an older woman with a pleasant smile. She asked if he was hungry and if she could do anything to make him more comfortable.

Arthur promptly asked the same question he'd been asking for days, "have you heard any news about my girlfriend?"

The nurse's mouth said that she hadn't heard anything new, but her body language told him that she knew everything. Either she did not have the liberty to talk to him or did not want the burden of bearing bad news. Arthur could only hope that her silence was for sake of protocol, and not for a reason that he should worry about.

"I'll send her doctor this way," the nurse assured him.

It was the longest time of Arthur's life as he waited for that doctor. Every minute was stretched into an hour of its own, a stressful, nail biting, hour. Only two of those physics defying minutes had passed. He hadn't a clue how many more he would endure before he could hear that Gwen was okay and that he could visit her now.

Arthur wished that he had flowers to bring her, so that she would have something beautiful to look at when she opened her eyes. Determined to save the moment, he folded an origami rose from two medical documents.

The doctor walked in after twenty excruciating minutes. Arthur could tell from the physician's countenance and the manner in which he apologized that this would be no fairytale ending. This was a happily never after…

Arthur was released from the hospital after five days. He wasn't in perfect condition, but time and opiates would heal the rest. Much was still a shock to him. He had been numb up to the point that he turned the key to his apartment and stepped inside. Every sight, smell and sound wounded him, like standing before a firing squad.

Arthur walked back to his bedroom in desperate need to rest in his own bed. He dropped a plastic sack on the dresser. It contained his personal effects, all but the iron skillet that was collected as evidence.

Arthur crawled into bed, still wearing a plastic bracelet from the hospital. His parents were flying in to care for him. They would be arriving tomorrow morning. He rested his head upon the pillow and a burst of Gwen's perfume was released. The sweet aroma was like a serrated blade to the heart. Tears seeped from the creases of his closed eyes and ran back into his ears. Arthur rolled onto his side, nostalgically rubbing her empty side of the bed, wishing she was there to warm it. He recalled every steamy night and tender moment in vivid detail. The cold sheets and solitude proved too much. He could not find peace in this bedroom without her.

He walked to the living room and sat on the couch, flooded by the same sorrow when he found her lacy garter belt tucked between the cushions. As he recalled the day she wore it and how it ended up there, it was just too much to bear. There was nowhere to run. Every corner of his home was a painful reminder.

Defeated, he lowered to the floor and stumbled upon a popcorn kernel that had survived his rigorous cleaning. The smell of buttery popcorn would forever remind him of their first confessions of love. Arthur crushed the brittle kernel in his fist, realizing that love was equally fragile.

He allowed his tears to seep into the carpet as he tried to imagine a world without Gwen's beautiful laugh, caring nature, and feisty spirit. Such a future was impossible to picture…

Yawning and stretching, Arthur fought to keep his eyes open as he sat at the airport with his parents. He hadn't been blessed with a full night's sleep in quite some time. Travelers were passing by with luggage and strollers, flying to unknown destinations.

Enticing aromas were wafting from the food court but Arthur still hadn't regained his appetite. He'd lost seven pounds and if not for his parents he would have lost more. Arthur had initially been furious to find out that the hospital had called his folks. He had expected his mom and dad to pull the typical crap that overbearing religious people do: make a bad situation worse by throwing around clichés like everything happens for a reason, it's all part of God's plan and the ridiculous list goes on.

Another trait he found annoying about overzealous religious people was the ever present need to blame the victim. No matter the circumstances they would perform any level of mental gymnastics in order to make this so. If they were present while police shot their neighbor's two year old toddler, they would be wiping blood and brain matter from their faces while telling the news cameras that little Susie had it coming. She shouldn't have thrown her rattle at the police. Kids these days don't respect authority and if anyone is to blame it's the bereaved parents for not taking the child to church more.

Arthur had expected his folks to do the typical religious nonsense of exploiting a tragedy to peddle Jesus like bootleg Rolexes. He'd witnessed this shameless exploitation at funerals so often that he no longer attended them.

These were all reasonable assumptions. In the past, Arthur hadn't been able to ink his own skin without his father providing his unsolicited opinion and expressing his disapproval. At times they ridiculed him about his choices in life.

Arthur was pleasantly surprised when his mother and father committed none of these shameless acts. There were no clichés, no blaming and shaming, no pressure for him to go to church more, no lectures on the value of persistent prayer. Their only concern was their son. Arthur had their full support from the moment they'd arrived. They took care of him until he reached a full recovery. Arthur was sad to be sitting at the bustling airport, soon to bid farewell.

"I'd feel much better if you returned to England with us," his mother said as she awaited her flight. "I have your old bedroom ready."

His father backed her, "some crazy man tried to kill my son, and he's still out there."

"That's why I must stay," Arthur explained, "to testify against him, and make certain that he will never hurt anyone again. Adam isn't roaming free. He's in prison awaiting trial. I can't deny the irony. The electric shock of an eel killed him, but the electric shock of a defibrillator brought him back to life. It's so unfair. He should be dead."

Arthur's parents embraced him as tears pooled in his eyes. There were no judgmental lectures about turning the other cheek, or vengeance belonging to their Lord and savior. There was only love.

The prison cafeteria was crowded and noisy. Adam sat at a table forcing down terrible food and watered-down orange juice. The eggs were slimy, and the bacon tasted like cardboard. This slop was a far cry from the upscale cuisine of the five star restaurant he'd inherited.

He contemplated every step of the terrible path that brought him here: selfishness, arrogance, and obsession. He really didn't see the point of a trial. It would only delay the inevitable. He was never going to leave this place. Adam had accepted this gloomy fate and pled guilty, but his lawyers had him declared incompetent. The trial would go on as scheduled.

Four inmates, with tattoos of snarling wolves, sauntered through the mess hall. A sudden hush swept over the crowd. Prisoners parted like the Red Sea, as the Wolfpack ventured forward. They were the most ruthless prison gang in Europe. They killed without reason or mercy.

The alfa wolf was Cas, a manipulative smooth talker, with white blonde hair, and stormy gray eyes. Rome and Tris were crimson haired twins, identical in appearance and ferocious temper. Lance possessed midnight curls; the press had nicknamed him Slugger for his propensity to beat people to death with a baseball bat.

Adam looked up from his meal and addressed the musclebound giants, "you're looking well brothers." These weren't blood relatives, just a rowdy bunch that he grew up with.

Tris grabbed Adam's arm and found that there was just a light shadow where a tattoo used to be. He slammed Adam's arm on the table and growled at him, "you are no longer one of us! How dare you call us brothers?!"

"My father had it removed," Adam explained.

"This fucking Judas was never one of us!" Lance snapped.

Rome demanded, "give me one reason not to cut out your traitorous tongue with this spork."

"I was a fourteen year old kid who didn't realize that I was getting anyone in trouble," Adam spoke in his own defense.

Cas, the alpha, never raised his voice; he gave an amused smile. "We all took oaths of secrecy for a reason, little brother. You broke yours, and there will be consequences."

Without warning, Lance grabbed a fist full of Adam's hair, and slammed his face down on the metal tray. Adam struggled vigorously against the brutes who were holding him down. One side of his face was in Lance's claws and the other side was submerged in oatmeal and eggs.

Cas sat next to Adam and whispered menacingly, "you will know pain, Adam, agony beyond your most horrific nightmares."