Bruised
I wake up on the living room couch. It must be night time...I think. I try look to up to find out, but can't, shooting back pains stapling me to the couch cushions. Rising my right hand I can see that it's still blue and getting bluer, with bits of black dotting around the bruise.
"So it wasn't a dream?" I sigh sadly.
"No I'm afraid not baby sister" someone says. I stiffen up as much as my sore back would allow, trying to use my limited sight to decipher who's voice it is. Fear starts curdling inside me when I can't see the person, body tingling over as I assume the worst.
"Please don't hurt me again!" I shriek softly, my voice barely able to leave my mouth.
"Hurt you? Why would I hurt you?" The woman says. Her sound trails off, walking somewhere as she adds, "I just wish I knew why you'd start that again little sis. You were doing so well!" The more this person talks the more I want the ability to move, I want to look at whoever it is and...what? My mind blanks again, filing up with head cracking pain.
"So sorry to bother you at home but I think you guys need to come over." Pause. "Yes. Not sure how much, but she does have a bruise on her wrist, and I think her back is out as well. Hm? Oh...I can check. Hold on." I hear a clank as the person puts down something, walking my way.
"Helga, can you move your hand for me?" I do, slightly, feeling snippets of something that fades when I rotate it. I turn my head some, finally seeing who the mystery person is: Olga. She is standing over me, face sagging some as she no doubt thinks the worst of me. I hate the way Olga's eyes are encased in sadness, the way they reflect her deepest regret for not seeing this coming. I can tell by her upside-down bowl of a frown just how disappointed she is in me, how she wishes beyond wish that things were different.
But they ARE! She may not see it, but I was not the one who caused this. I was not the one who drank every freaking LICK of booze in the house. And I'm getting the feeling that because I did once, no one will believe me. Not even my own sister.
"Can you sit up?" She asks, holding out her hand. I take it, gingerly lifting myself. I make it about half an inch before another back cracking stab takes hold of me, and I have to lie down again
Olga rushes over to the phone, chattering into it fast. "Wrist seems fine, but her back is really not good. I don't think she can-Oh...you're on the way? OH thank you! Thank You! I'll meet you out front."
"Don't worry baby sister!" she says as she returns to my side, "Help is on the way!" I look at her, focusing on her eyes as I gather enough energy to explain. I take in huge breaths and let them out evenly. Yet something stops me from forming the words. The only thing I can force my body to do is shake my head no.
"No? No what? What are you saying no to?" She asks, getting confused now.
"I... didn't... do this!"
"What?"
"I didn't...hurt myself..." I force out, breath exciting my lips in punches of air. I can feel my back crumbling over in freezing hurt, but I don't care, too determined to move on my side so I can look at my sister.
"You think...I drank...but...I DIDN'T!" my teeth are showing, words spitting out between the small gaps. The more I look at my sad faced sister the more angry I get. How can she assume I did this? How can she, after a solid year of sobriety, think that I would get drunk again?
Because I had.
Olga was not there to see it, but she knows. She knows that I once consumed every drop of rum in the house to quench what was consuming me: the darkest of dark depression, a complete feeling of worthlessness that I wore like a down coat in winter. The way I took in all the hate around me, how I just knew that by simply being alive I was the cause of everyone troubless.
I can remember, mired in the mess of it, how much I wanted to slip away, how much I wanted to lay the covers over me and fade into nothingness. If I could just have one last drink, I used to chant to myself, everything would be fine. Because then I would be too numb to feel.
Then again, laying on this couch with a hurting back, I wonder why would Arnold? Why would the happiest man in the cosmos break down so easily? Why would he ignore the throngs of people who love him just because he'll see never two he hardly remembers? Why, oh why, would a man who used to reason away any terrible thought surrender at first battle? He saved our town, he saved our boarding house, and he saved me. And yet he is not even trying to save himself.
"It's not fare," I croak out, "He's supposed to be the strong one. Not me." tears slime down my face, taking pieces of me with them as they go. I can feel my head soaking up, swallowed by a thousand little thoughts that beg for answers.
Olga's lips tremble for me, eyes welling up as she sees me cry. She may not understand what I mean, but she does understand that I'm hurting. And for the first time in a long time, I let her comfort me, I let my sister...be a big sister. She gets closer, softly putting her arms around me without moving my back.
"I'm so sorry Helga. I wish I knew what to do," Olga weeps.
"I think," I croak out again as I take her hand in mine, "That you're already doing it."
Phoebe rushes in a few moments later rubbing her cheeks. She takes off her coat and hat, still keeping her scarf on. She has a Red Cross medical bag with her.
"Ok," she says, "I got an EMT on call in case we need one. We most likely won't, but I wanted to be ready." It amazes me how high powered she is-how she zips about the room in perfect wound up motions despite the fact that she's just had a baby three weeks ago. I marvel at the way she's does not even look tired, face totally perked up. She rushes over to me, bag in hand and gently waves Olga out of the way.
"Little room please." My big sister backs away and lets my best friend get in. She gasps when she spots my wrist, her expressionless face quickly turning sad. "Oh Helga, why..." She sighs, eyes starting to weigh down in feeling as she looks at how hurt I am. Like Olga had, she asks me to move my hand around and I do, being sure to twist it many ways so she can see that it's not broken.
"Well, thank god it's just bruised. How is her back?"
"I tried to get her to sit up but she couldn't."
"Can you trying sitting again?" Phoebe asks me, "I have to see how bad your back is." I do, slowly inching my way up. Surprisingly, it does not hurt. There are no shooting pains, nothing when I easy myself up to face my sister and friend. All I can feel is a slight creak. Phoebe and Olga breathe in relief, Phebs pushing her medical bag of tricks away from her.
"Oh thank god. From the way you sounded on the phone I thought...well that does not matter now."
"Where's Little Phil?" I ask, crossing my legs. Why didn't I ask about him before? Whats wrong with me!
"Arnold's grandparents took him to the park. They thought that it was best he didn't see you..ya know...like this..."
"I'm...glad...I don't think...I...even want to. The way he looked at me..." Phoebe sits on the couch next to me, putting her hand on my shoulder.
"Arnold was not too happy with you huh?'
"No," I sigh.
"So what happened here Helga? I don't mean to make it sound so accusing, but...what started all this?" I look my best friend, not sure what to say. For a second I thought coming up with some bogus crap so I wouldn't have to deface our beloved Arnold. But was it really better for them to think I did this? What it would really be better to let them just assume? Sure, they knew I could pull something like this, HAD pulled something like this, but was that enough of a reason to save my husbands rep? The more the thought flies around in my mind, the more I don't know.
"Olga...how long was I out?" I ask.
"Oh, about a half an hour."
"Did you see Arnold?"
"Actually no. I thought he was working."
"No..." Suddenly a rush of panic pulses through me, and before I can explain myself I dash out of the living room and up the stairs. With our bedroom ladder still down I climb it fast, unsure of what I'd find. Surely he MUST have come down by now...there is no way he'd...
My eyes widen to the size of thanksgiving platters when I see him, air leaving me in a large gasp. Arnold is on the floor in the middle of our room, arms bent at his sides. His skin is almost white, his lips crackled over in puke. I zap to him fast, nearly fainting in total disbelief when I see the pools of blood by his right arm. Shards of glass stick out at his wrist and for a second I fear the worst.
"Arnold" I quiver, "Arnold? Are you in there! Wake up! WAKE UP! WAKE THE FUCK UP!" I try prodding him, panic rising when he does not respond to my hot jabs at his skin.
"WAKE THE FUCK UP!" I shout again, tears bursting out my eyes. Scared and full of the worst stomach churning dread I have ever had in my entire life I slap his face, hard and fast with my hands as I screech at the apex of my lungs. Arnold's head is as malleable as a Barbie doll's and I can't stop myself from pushing it around, doing anything my hands can to jolt him alive.
"What's going on baby sister?" Olga asks when she rushes behind me. I don't take my eyes off my husband, too scared that he'll slip away the MOMENT I do. I keep screaming at him, body crouched and frozen over his head when I look at his empty orbs, his limp neck, and his seemingly vacant body.
"GET PHOEBE! NOW!" I order between sobs. Olga just stands there, hands over mouth as she sees the same horrid scene I do. "WHAT THE HELL OLGA! GO!" She slowly backs away, not able to tare her face from what is in front of her.
But thankfully, OH SO THANFULLY Phoebe heard my cries and is suddenly at my side with her bag. If she's scared she does not show it, intent on taking in the image medically. I see her take out something, but can't decipher exactly what, my vision getting blurry. She flutters about my husband's body and it takes all my strength not to down the remaining booze in the house. But by the looks of my lifeless Arnold, there may be nothing left.
"I'm going to need an ambulance at the Sunset Arms Boarding house. Patient is unconscious but breathing. Cuts on his right wrist, some blood loss. Appeasers to have vomited..." My best friend chatters on her cell clearly, talking in that same medic monotone that she must use at work all day. I try to listen to her but can't, her words failing to sink in. They swirl around me as I think about all the happiness in this room that's been tainted by the spilt blood and mess.
"Please wake up," I weep softy, "PLEASE! ARNOLD PLEASE!" My face reddens as I wail, my eyes about to jump out their sockets with the immense amount of water they beg to let out. I stand there, watching through a misty veil as Phoebe pokes and prods at my husband, my Arnold, and my love. She moves her hands quickly as she tries to clean him up, taking out the bits of glass from his deep cut.
"Hello? Mother Bird? We're back! Is Tex up?" I shudder as I hear Gertie's voice, knowing that they can't see Arnold like this. I turn to Olga who's still in shock.
"You have to stall them!" I cry, "Don't let them come up here!"
"But I.."
"DON'T FUCK WITH ME OLGA! DO IT!" I scream, Old Betsy scraping her face. She runs out quick, too quick for me to see her reaction. I turn back to Arnold, stomach bubbling over when I see he's yet to show any signs of life. The smell of the room starts to get me, a heavy mix of iron, spoiled beef stew, and mess agitating my nose and soon I'm running to the trash to heave up my lunch.
My face burns hot as I yak and I have to steady myself with the sides of the can so I don't pass out again. "Oh God..." I shake between spews, "This is not real. This is not real. THIS IS NOT REAL!" But it was real, and there is nothing anyone could do to change that. Nothing anyone could do to change the sickening feeling that rose out of my self when I saw the medics roll away my Arnold Phillip Shortman to uncertainty.