Chapter 10: Everybody hurts

Kate wakes up to the bright harsh light of mid-morning and for an instant she's lying on her back in the grass, agony blazing in her chest, Castle leaning over her. As swiftly it's gone again, leaving her gasping. Her dad's calling her, and she has to rise, have breakfast, though the thought of eating makes her nauseous and she'd kill to drink only a coffee and eat nothing, absolutely nothing, else. But that would worry her dad, so she sips milk, eats cereal as slowly as she dares to stabilise her stomach, declines toast.

Today, she's going to start getting into a routine, that she can perfect before her father leaves. So after breakfast, after the slow torture that is changing the dressings, remembering the slam of the bullet when she sees the wound and needing to block that off, after the time it takes her to recover simply from that, she struggles to her feet and counts her paces. Ten is her minimum: she's been able to take ten steps for four days now, so she'll aim for fifteen, unaided. She makes it to fourteen before she's clutching at a chair back for support, sitting down heavily and jarring the wound in her side. She's unreasonably disappointed with herself. It takes two more painkillers to pull her through lunch, but after the meal she's unwilling to rest, insists on doing the other exercises, flexing as required until she feels the strain on weakened, severed muscle. Intensely as she wants, needs, to continue, she knows that she has to stop now, or she'll cause new damage.

She's got this. She's got a routine, control, a plan. But in the privacy of her head, all she can think is fuck this hurts. And she doesn't just mean physically. She reaches for the pen, writes in stages, as and when she can.

Dear Castle,

I'm so sorry I sent you away in the hospital. I wish I hadn't. But it all hurt too much and I couldn't deal with how you looked at me, your worry and concern and all your fears. I can't carry your pain too. There's too much of my own.

I heard you. I heard you screaming my name as I fell. I heard you screaming I love you. But I hear the crack of the bullet and the pain slamming into me and I can't separate them from your words. One time you came to see me, all I saw was you kneeling over me in the cemetery, the agony in your eyes all mixed up with love, and every time you came to see me after that, that's all I could see when I looked at your face. I can't imagine your face any other way, right now. I'm trying so hard to, but I can't. So I can't bear to see you: it takes me right back to dying in a cemetery, and all my pain, and all yours.

Truthfully, I resent it. I resent that seeing you took me back to that moment, everything spoilt. I resent your worry and concern, because I don't want to need it. Not from you, not from anyone. I resent that you only told me you loved me when I was dying. And I feel so guilty about all of it, because all any of you wanted was to help. You couldn't save me, you couldn't rescue me, you couldn't have told me you loved me any earlier because I'd only come to terms with it, was only ready to hear it, after Captain Montgomery was shot. That was my fault, too, but I can't think about it now. It's so selfish of me, to resent you for wanting to help. For saying you love me. You'd be right to hate me for it. You'd hardly want to love me if you could see this. I couldn't tell you any of it, because it's petty and hateful and pathetic, and I didn't want to hurt you. I thought it would be easier to have one sharp cut, than the endless punches of resentment and guilt and pain. I thought it would be easier to ask you to go now, than wait for you to realise you didn't want to stay.

I'm still looking at the stitches in my chest and the surgical wound. I still can't walk more than a few steps at a time. Fourteen, to be precise. Fourteen steps, and I have to rest. I could run a mile in four-inch heels, a month ago, spar for an hour and hardly break sweat. Now I can't walk more than fourteen steps. I can't get dressed in anything other than wraparounds, because I can't raise my arms fully. I can't sleep properly because I'm reliving some part of this incident – that's what they called it, in the hospital, an incident - more times than not when I close my eyes.

Lanie said that I'd have dreams. She didn't say that they'd be in 3-D with surround sound. Total Recall, but I'm no Arnie. She said they'd pass. Maybe when I'm not so weak physically, they'll fade.

I wish I hadn't told you to go. I wish I could think that I could have you back. But I can't be Nikki any more. It all hurts so much I can't get over it: me dying, you screaming, any hope to have an us lost the instant the bullet hit me.

I can't help your pain. I can't even help my own.

Kate

Each day begins to fall into the routine she's established for herself. Each day she takes a few steps more, pushing herself further, faster, stopping only when it's clear that one more effort will damage her. Her father doesn't see the pain she's putting herself through, so that she'll be fit enough that he won't fret over her, won't worry that she can't take care of herself, when he leaves. He doesn't see the spiral of tension that envelops her when a door slams, when bright sunlight wakes her. Her dreams are silent – they must be, because if she were screaming the way she hears in her dreams then she'd wake him. And, not daily, but often, she pours out her pain and frustration and heartache on to white paper with black ink, writes another letter that she'll never send.

The day, one week later, that her father has to return to New York, leaving her a full freezer, she can walk thirty steps without needing to stop. It's more than the distance from her bedroom to the main room, or from the main room to the kitchen. Small freedom, of the ground floor of the cabin: although she's no reason to go upstairs she feels restricted by the difficulty it would cause her. Next week, when she can walk fifty steps, or more, she'll try stairs.

She only has to change the dressings every other day, and next week, if, when she changes them, the wounds have closed, she can leave them off. She might even be able to wear a bra again – though no underwires that might rub against the wounds – which will bring back some of her sense of self. It may be petty and pathetic, but she likes wearing nice underwear; it makes her feel good, might take away some of the feelings of ugliness caused by the bullet hole. Still no body wash, though. It's trivial, but she misses it unreasonably, though at least she's allowed brief showers. (she wants a bath, but she's not allowed. Mustn't soak the wounds.) Soon, she thinks. But absolutely no high heels, for weeks more. The day she can have her heels on is the day she thinks she'll be as close to herself as she'll ever be again.

She hugs her dad goodbye, waves him off, able to lift her arm to shoulder level for that long: another small victory over her injuries. Finally she's alone, no pressure of expectations, no need to be considerate or careful of another's raw emotions. She's unconstrainedly relieved. At last, time to heal in peace. She feels so much better that she's almost tempted to ring someone, to tell them. But that desire is abruptly halted when she realises that walking back into the house is as far as she can go. She'll ring when she's able to walk further. When there's proper progress. When she can honestly say that she's better, that there's no need to worry at all. When it's time to come home.

In the afternoon the wind rises, and storm clouds start to gather. Kate's always liked thunderstorms, the sharp blazing knives of lightning, the bass counterpoint rumble of thunder, the rattling of the rain or hail on the cabin roof. She settles down, nestled comfortably into the couch with a mug of herbal tea – still no coffee, but she's counting down the days – that she managed to make easily without exhausting herself, another victory, and prepares to watch. This is what she came here for, raw nature, no city noise and bustle. Even the riot of the storm will soothe her emotions. She sips her tea contentedly, only the dim lamplight to break the dark on which the storm will play, better for her now than any movie.

When the first slash of lightning rips across the sky she screams, taken straight back to the flash of sunlight on rifle and the muzzle spark. She's still screaming; terrorised, frantic and agonised, when the slam of thunder brings her to the thump of the bullet in her chest. She scrabbles blindly for the main light switch, desperately trying to breathe, block out the flashback. With each lightning strike she falls a little deeper into memory, unable to pull herself out. She remembers everything, and the storm has triggered every single high definition pixel, every decibel.

It's not until the storm has passed, well over an hour later, that she stops sobbing in terror, screaming again at every lightning bolt. It takes her many minutes to be able to draw full breath, biting pain in her sternum leaving her desperate for painkillers, lying too many steps away in her bedroom. She can't move: eidetic recall still on continuous repeat in her head; the pain in her chest consuming her. It's more hours, suffering through the twin torment of the physical pain and the memory, before it all abates sufficiently for her to stagger to her bed, stopping every five paces to lean against the wall and gather strength for the next five.

She wakes late, still hurting, and takes two painkillers before she can do anything else. Breakfast is an effort, the cereal tasteless, the tea unsatisfying. She forces herself through the routine of walking, miserably aware that she'll be lucky to walk as far as yesterday. And indeed she can't, falling short four steps early. Unhappy, she turns to her written therapy, hoping that spilling out all her fears will help them depart.

Dear Castle,

I let my dad go home, because I didn't want him. I don't want anyone. I hate being so weak. There was a storm last night: I used to love thunderstorms up here. It left me screaming like a child with a nightmare, terrified and pathetic. It's just as well no-one was here to see me reduced to a cowering wreck. It's just as well my dad didn't see it. And today I can't even walk as far as yesterday: it hurts too much and I'm too tired. Nobody told me it would be like this. It wasn't even a dream, I wasn't asleep. I thought that as I got better the dreams would fade. Perhaps I just need more time.

There are other things I should tell you, so I don't think about the storm. Get them off my chest – ha ha. That's an ironic phrase, in the circumstances. But I have to laugh, because otherwise I wouldn't stop crying.

I broke up with Josh before I came out of hospital, straight after I came out of ICU. I couldn't tell you that. It's the only thing that hasn't hurt since the bullet hit me. He was upset. I couldn't bring myself to care. He said it was your fault I was shot. He said he should have known that I'd never really be with him. He said he couldn't compete with you. I told him to get out. I told him it wasn't your fault. It was never your fault. But he could never compete with you. You were right. I was just hiding. I never loved him. I didn't feel anything when he left. Not like when you left.

I thought that I had to tell you to go. I don't want you to pity me. I can't deal with your disappointment in me when you see how weak I am. I shouldn't have sent you away without explaining, but it was just too hard to tell you. And now I can't ask you to come back. I don't want you to see me like this. You followed me around because I was strong. Kicking ass and catching killers. Nikki Heat's strong. I can't be that woman. I'm not the woman you think you're in love with. I heard you. I heard you in the cemetery. I just can't handle what you said. I'm not that woman any more.

I can walk from my bed to the living room now, without having to stop and lean against the wall. Maybe in another week I'll be able to do it both ways. I still don't sleep right. The bullet hole is only just beginning to heal, but the scar will be there for ever. I still can't raise my arms fully. I want to go running. I want to spar in the gym. I won't be able to do any of that for months yet, the doctors said. I'm too damaged.

I suppose I should be grateful that I'm alive at all, but sometimes it's so very hard to feel grateful. Especially when my throat's raw from screaming. But it's not just that. It's all the stupid, petty, minor, pathetic things that I can't have, or can't do. I can't have coffee because it's a stimulant and it's not good for me right now. I can't have a bath because the wounds mustn't be soaked, or they won't heal. I can't use my own body wash, because I'm only allowed plain soap on the wounds. I don't smell of cherries, now. I can't wear a bra, though I'm sure that wouldn't bother you if you knew, because of the dressings. But it means that all I see when I look down is the dressings or the hole where the bullet hit, still red and open and angry. I have to re-dress it every other day and every time I do I remember dying. I can't even be in the shower for more than ten minutes. It's barely long enough to wash my hair.

I want to have coffee, and hour-long baths with bubbles, and wear pretty, sexy underwear. I want to watch the storms, and sleep with the dreams I used to have. Another thing I never told you. I dreamed of you. Never of Josh, or Tom. I want to run, to spar, to be on the shooting range. I want my gun, and my badge, and my heels. I want you.

And I can't have any of it.

I want my life back.

Kate

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No chapter tomorrow: I have a formal function to attend.