Chapter Eleven
Nike
Something was being repeatedly slammed into my head. I couldn't see anything but darkness, so I had no idea of where the attacker was at. It was the left side of my head that felt like it was being bashed in, so I tried to slowly scoot over so I might possibly get out of striking-range. But no matter where I moved, the attacker kept following me. I groaned and went limp, giving up. I was going to die. Maybe I was already dead. Who knew? I wasn't exactly saddened by that thought; I had no one here on the earth anymore who would care or miss me when I was gone, so what was the point?
Then I felt something touching me. It felt like strong, cool, rough hands. I opened my eyes immediately and noticed I was in a small, dimly lit, concrete room. There was a side-table that was next to the bed that I lay on, and a chair next to that. The chair was occupied by a man who looked about twenty. He was actually pretty good-looking; he had a slight build and dark brown hair that was tied back from his face. His sleeves were rolled up showing off his muscular arms as he moved, and he was turned away from me, rummaging through the various tools on the side-table. When he turned back to face me he had a wet rag in his hands, looking down at me. He gently pressed against a spot on my arm with the rag, rubbing on it softly. He happened to look up and he met my eyes. My breath hitched; he had the deepest dark brown eyes I'd ever seen, but they were sad, as if he'd done many things that he wished he hadn't.
"Good to see you're not dead." His voice was agreeable on the ears; it was kind enough yet withdrawn.
"Umm…thanks," I said groggily. "Sorry, but who are you?"
He chuckled non-humorously. "The man who saved your life."
"Then I thank you for that, kind sir. But do you mind telling me what happened?"
He was silent, doing his work. I looked down to see he was cleaning some clogged blood off of my skin. A memory prickled at the back of my mind, but I couldn't focus on it.
"How do you feel?" he asked instead. "Does anything feel broken?"
"Erm…I'm not sure. I'd really rather not move."
"Well, you're left arm is broken, so don't move it because the break is pretty bad. You have glass in multiple areas that's in pretty deep, so I'm going to have to get them out before I can stitch you up."
I blinked at him. "Stitch?"
He raised an eyebrow at me. "How does your head feel?"
"Hurts like hell. I feel like someone is trying to bash my brains out with a hammer."
"You don't remember anything?"
"No."
"What's your name?"
I thought about it for a moment. Again, something was stirring in my memory, but it was just too far away. "I don't know," I admitted finally.
He shook his head. "You have a concussion. Head trauma."
"Okay."
"Hold still while I remove the glass. I don't have any pain meds to give you, so it's going to hurt."
"Okay."
He searched my face, and then turned to his side-table, picked up a couple tools, and started with my shoulder. I felt a sharp, stabbing pain, and as hard as I tried not to, I flinched.
"I know, I'm sorry," he said softly. "You're going to feel a lot of pain, but for you to get better this glass has to come out."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. None of this is your fault." He sounded angry. After a few moments of silence and a couple of pieces of glass later, I broke the silence.
"So…do you know what happened?"
"You got in a car wreck. You ran out in the street and got ran over, thrown in to the windshield."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes, I imagine it did." He paused, then said, "You also got hit pretty hard on the head by a gun and shot in the thigh on your left leg."
"Gun?" He didn't answer me, so we lapsed into another silence. I got the notion that this man was more of the silent type, the one who was always the last to trust anyone and who was always withdrawn into himself. Words were not his strong suit, and he preferred it that way.
"What are you?"
"Huh?"
"How do you know how to do stuff like this?"
"I went to school to become a doctor, a person who takes care of inured and sick people."
"Oh. So you're smart."
He grimaced. "More so now than I was a few years ago." Just then the door slammed open and in came a huge, buff dude that was as wide as he was tall. He had a cold, dark look about him, and when he looked at me, I swear all he wanted to do was tear my head off my shoulders. Looking at him, I had the prickling feeling that I'd seen him before, but I couldn't remember a thing.
"Makis," he boomed. "We need you out in the main room." When the man who was taking the glass out of my arm, Makis, didn't answer, the buff dude snapped, "Now."
"I'm busy at the moment, as you can see," Makis told him calmly, taking the last piece of glass out of my arms and moving to my face.
"Why the hell are you not getting your ass out there? No one cares 'bout that bitch! We have one of our own men who's injured who needs your attention." His face was turning red from his anger.
"How critical is he?"
"He's been stabbed!"
"Where? How deep?"
"In his hand, maybe about half an inch."
Makis snorted. "I have priorities, Daniel, and I stick to them. He will live, won't even lose his hand. She, on the other hand, might die if I don't tend to her first."
"I don't give a damn about her!" Daniel yelled.
"Then why the hell did you bring her in and not leave her to die?" He finally turned around to meet the other man's gaze. Makis glared back at Daniel.
"Because there was a chance she could have lived and told the police what we look like."
"Then why didn't you shoot her and get it over with?" Daniel had no response to this, but his face was turning red and he was balling his hands into fists. Makis gave him a look of steel and said, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, or I'm going to have to remove you."
Daniel snarled lots of curses but stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Makis turned back to me and continued his slow work. About twenty minutes later he was done removing the glass from my face. "I'm going to go ahead and stitch up your arms and face before I move any farther."
"Alright," I said, bored.
He noticed my tone. "It'll hurt and feel a little bit weird, but it'll keep you from bleeding more or getting infected."
"Okay."
"You're going to have some scars, including one nasty one on the right side of your face."
"Cool."
"Cool?" He laughed slightly. "You're one strange young woman. Do you consider them battle-scars?"
"Yeah, I guess. Too bad I can't remember how I got them though."
"I'm sure you wouldn't want to remember that," he said. He started the stitches, but by this time, I was used to the poking and prodding of sharp objects on my skin.
"Where am I?" I asked some time later.
He hesitated, but then, shrugging, he said, "You're at headquarters."
"What's headquarters?"
"Think about this for me," he said, ignoring my question. "Try to remember your name."
"Why?"
"Because the sooner I get you fixed up, then the sooner I want to get you out of this hellhole."
I thought and thought and thought about it, but could come up with nothing. "I just don't know."
"You live around here though?"
"I guess…" I said, thinking that might almost sound right.
"Artemis," he said softly, more to himself.
"Artemis?" I repeated, listening to how it sounded.
"She's the Greek goddess of the wilderness. She's as beautiful as the forests and as unpredictable and cunning as the animals. It would be very unwise to cross her."
"She sounds like a powerful woman."
He nodded. "She is. You remind me of her, not only because of how you're handling everything, but you're look. You could be a golden-haired Artemis. Like a mix between Aphrodite and Artemis." He cracked a small smile, as if he saw a funny picture in his head.
"Sure. Works for me."
"Anyways, this name should be better than calling you 'girl' or 'chick' or even as the rest of the boys like to call you, 'bitch'."
"Oh that's lovely. Tell me, what did I do to them?"
"Got the better of seven or so of them together. They're just embarrassed that they got bested by a girl of… How old are you?"
"How should I know? How old do I look?"
"Sixteen, seventeen."
"Sure. Why not?"
"Glad to see you're easy-going."
"And I'm satisfied to see that I've actually been carrying on a conversation of more than a sentence or two with you."
He shook his head, his beautiful smile melting away to a frown, as if he'd been caught, which, technically, he had. "Don't get used to it." And, to prove his point, he finished his job in silence.
A/N: Sooo...what'd you think? Let me know!
My thank-you:
Eclipse Sundown: Yeah, I typed it out wrong. I fixed it though! Haha I'm an airhead, but you already knew that! ;) Hope you liked this and thanks for your review!
Alrighty guys, so if you tried the website, please go back to the previous chapter because I typed it wrong and just went back and fixed it. Thanks!
Okey-dokey! R&R guys!
Nike
