For These Scars

~Chapter 31~

Written by: RinoaDestiny

King of Fighters, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, Saisyu Kusanagi, and Benimaru Nikaido belong to SNK

Anger lent him strength, which was what he needed right now.

"You can't hold me here! I insist on leaving. Today."

"Yagami-san, the doctor needs to see you. You cannot go until then."

"I can't stay here! There's a place I have to be!" Glaring at the nurses had no effect despite his best efforts to be fierce. Whether it was because he was ill or the staff had seen his like before, the women didn't quail at his temper. One of them, though, had run off to find the head nurse. If the doctor needed to see him, Iori hoped he made it quick. He'd slept through most of the morning and mid-afternoon and if he didn't leave soon, he'd never make it to the park.

He was going straight there, having only enough stamina for one trip.

Missing the "meeting" wasn't an option.

His muscles ached – whatever was left of them – and his vision blurred from time to time. He had a ferocious headache with sharp stabs of pain in the back of his skull and his body kept fluctuating between chills and sweating. The back of his throat itched – coughing up blood was the norm now – and he supposed he looked dreadful, because the nurses didn't want him to leave. Yet, he had to. He couldn't stay here.

The head nurse strode into the room, met his defiant gaze and held it.

"Yagami-san, keep your voice down. You're disturbing the other patients."

Was he? He was being a nuisance, wasn't he?

"I demand to be released. You cannot –"

"So I was told. After the doctor sees you."

"Will he refuse to release me?" The question was pointed; Iori was in no mood for idle chatter. "I'm not getting better. You know that."

"You're malnourished and have a fever. There might be other complications."

Other complications. They'd only removed the oxygen mask an hour ago and soon after, his coughing fits began anew. The lingering taste of iron remained in his mouth, on his teeth, and in his throat. Ointment had been applied to his healing burns, which had troubled him before. The area around his sternum hurt, as if channeling all his discomfort there. He'd been drenched in the rainstorm and fractures always reacted to a change in weather. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, seeping into the hospital gown he wore.

Complications. A nice way to phrase the harsh reality facing him.

"I'm dying. There's no reason to keep me here."

One of the nurses went wide-eyed at his blatant statement, glancing at the head nurse in charge. The older woman – middle-aged, gray starting at the edges of her dark hair – fixed him with a quelling look. Iori didn't look away. He didn't feel like submitting to her authority in this, not when it concerned him. He knew himself best – knew what the outcome would be.

"That's what we're here for, Yagami-san."

"You can't fix me. It's pointless. Let me leave."

"After."

"It'll happen?" He needed her guarantee. He didn't want to find out later it was all a ruse. "I'll be allowed to leave? Once he's done?"

"Yes. We don't recommend it, but –"

"Then get him over here. I don't want to wait."

"He's seeing other patients right now." The head nurse's expression didn't change. "He'll get to you soon, Yagami-san. Please wait."

He scowled, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Besides, his head hurt and with his anger spent, he was tired. The nurses approached him with caution and when he didn't react, they replaced his bedding, cleaned him as best they could, and resettled him into fresh sheets. One of them gave him medication for his breathing; another checked his fluids bag, and the head nurse supervised. When complete, he was left to himself in peace and quiet, broken only by the familiar sound of the heart monitor.

It sounded less steady than before, which wasn't a surprise.

He was weaker. He only hoped he could last until…

Iori coughed. Blood flecks spattered the clean sheets. His lungs burned, heat like acid, and a shudder jolted the entire length of his body. Desperate, he reached for rage – anything giving him strength – but fresh pain greeted him instead as his hands clenched, driving nails deep into flesh. Blood spilled from his palms, staining the bedspread crimson. He uncurled his fingers, extracting his nails and stared at the new wounds.

At this rate…

He wasn't going to think like that. He couldn't.

He was going to force his broken weary body to move, to head outside, to walk until he hit the park. Then, if it wanted to drop, he'd let it, so long as he awoke the next morning.

He wasn't going to die. Not yet. Not until…

The sky outside his window was high and clear, blue and wisped by clouds. An ideal day for sparring, or it would've been if he was still capable of doing so. Gold glowed on the edges of the window frame, sunlight lending the environment beyond the walls considerable warmth. He wanted to be there – to bask in the light, to breathe the air.

Soon. It'd be soon.

He just needed to wait.

"Yagami-san, I'd advise against your plans for an early leave. With your current condition, it'd be detrimental."

"Tell me something I don't already know, doctor."

The older man frowned at his tone. "You have a serious case of malnutrition. Are you aware of your current weight?"

Iori hesitated, unsure if he wanted it confirmed.

"If you leave, you will continue losing weight. The effects will be irreversible."

"They already are," he said, voice quiet and low.

"Yagami-san, you currently weigh in at fifty-eight kilograms. Anymore and you will –"

"I'll die anyway." A killing technique was used against him. Nothing the hospital did would ever reverse that, or cancel its purpose. Saisyu meant for him to die. "Your concern is warranted, but it doesn't matter."

"We still may be able to –"

"It'll be a waste of time." He looked at the doctor, at his wrinkles and anxious gaze, and overrode whatever the other man would've said. "Use it for someone else."

"Yagami-san –"

"Is there anything else I need to know? Any further examinations?"

"Your consistent coughing and the blood –"

"My lungs are fucked up. Is that it?"

"I wouldn't have phrased it like that, but yes."

"Then it's already too late." Everything was already advanced to the final stage. Trying to change it now was useless. "Let me go, doctor. There's no point in keeping me here."

"Do you need any assistance?"

"No."

Iori saw the other man's frown deepen, as if unsettled by his attitude. Not many patients, he concluded, refused aid or ongoing medical intervention. Then again, not many patients were struck with an ancient technique meant to disrupt life in the worst possible way. Most patients weren't eager to leave if their conditions crippled them. With his coughing fits, persistent aches and chills, and multiple other issues, just getting to the front desk to sign out would be a trial.

He was going to do it, though.

He had no choice.

Fifty-eight kilos. Two or three days. His time was running out.

"I'll have one of the nurses help you. Will you be able to stand?"

"I'm not leaving in a wheelchair."

"Can you get out of bed, Yagami-san?"

That was the first difficulty. If he couldn't do that, then everything else was moot. His muscles weren't as strong as they used to be. Since he was malnourished, he could guess why. Raising himself on his arm, which trembled, Iori pushed himself upward and then tried using his other arm. His body shook and sweat poured down. Clenching his teeth, cursing inwardly at his weakness, he caught himself before he could fall flat on his face. The pillow was there, but that was beside the point.

"Yagami-san…"

"I can do it, doctor." The back of his throat itched; he suppressed the cough. "Where are my clothes?"

"On the chair by the wall."

"I need them." He wasn't leaving dressed in his hospital gown.

"Yagami-san, if you need a hand –"

"I don't." He had to do this by himself, or he wasn't doing it at all. Exhausted as he was, his body was going to obey and fulfill this last requirement. "My clothes."

While the other man walked towards the chair behind him, Iori exerted the remnants of his strength and managed to turn himself over. The heart monitor continued beeping, pace speeding up, and he labored to breathe. This time, when the coughing started, he couldn't stop. Scarlet stained his hand, over the half-moon cuts in his palm.

"I'll –"

He waved the doctor aside, struggling to regain his breath. The effort was strenuous; he found himself closing his eyes as the strain tensed the muscles around his sternum. Fire in his veins, in his lungs, coursing through him and another violent shudder set him trembling.

"Yagami-san, I don't think you can –"

"I will."

There was no reconsideration here. Not now. Not ever.

He waited for the worst to pass, smeared the blood from his hand onto the flimsy gown, and placed his palm against the blanket. The doctor, scrutinizing his every move, placed his clothes beside him. His button-down dress shirt. His jeans. They were wrinkled and dirty. It didn't matter.

Next to him, the older man called for the nurse on his floor. Iori raised a brow.

"Your IV drip. We need to remove it."

After a few minutes, a young woman entered the room. While the doctor explained what she was to do, Iori took his shirt in hand. His fingers were so thin – skeletal – and his nails were brittle. It was just as well he wore his rings; he'd have lost them, otherwise. What depressed him was his grip strength – he had to try to maintain a hold. He no longer found it easy even keeping his fist closed.

If he allowed himself to dwell on it, then he'd…

He put that grief aside. There were other matters of importance to focus on.

With a murmured apology, the nurse approached him and began to remove the drip apparatus from his hand. Iori watched her, aware of the boiling heat and icy cold within him, and fought to keep from shaking as she completed her task with competence. No more needles. No more tubes and machines. He was on his own, as he always intended.

"Do you need help getting dressed?"

He shook his head.

"Let me remove your gown."

It was fastened from behind. Acquiescing, Iori bowed his head and stared at the clean tile floor. He felt the tie loosen. The nurse came back within his field of vision, which blurred at that moment.

"Please hold out your arms, Yagami-san."

He did, wincing as the scar tissue at his elbows stiffened. Within seconds, his gown was off, leaving him sitting on the bed in just his boxers.

"Do you need anything else?"

He didn't. He glanced up at her, then, and from the softening in her face, his expression must've made it clear.

"It's okay, Tanaka-san. I'll take over from here. Thank you."

The nurse did a slight bow to the doctor, gave him one final look, and left.

The doctor turned back to him. "Yagami-san…"

"I'll manage on my own." His throat tightened. "There's nothing else you can do."

"I could try."

"You can't." It was futile – it always was. Rare for him, he was grateful but the words refused to come out. He'd never been good with expressing thanks.

Doctor Yamashita would've understood. Would've stopped trying once it became obvious he was beyond hope. Without words left to say, Iori began the slow and painful process of dressing himself. The shirt, once his size, was too large. It draped over bony shoulders, sleeves spilling past scarred arms. His waist was scrawny, unable to hold up his pants. Improvising, he shredded the edge of his shirt and secured his jeans with a makeshift belt.

All the while, the doctor watched him, silent and still.

He forced his feet into his shoes, took a deep breath – his throat tickled – and pushed himself away from the bed. Stumbling into the wall closest to the stand holding his belongings, Iori braced himself using his forearm. His breaths came in hurried gasps, sweat dripped down his face, and his vision went in and out. He closed his eyes. Tried to slow the beating of his heart.

"Yagami-san…"

"I…" He could do this. He could. "Is there an elevator on this floor, doctor?"

"There is."

He nodded. Couldn't do much more than that.

"I can help you get there."

"How far is it?" His voice sounded distant. Faint.

"Just down the hall. To your left."

"I…" His heart wouldn't stop pounding. Had he overdone it this time? "I'll…get there…myself."

Once he got himself under control. Once he could move again.

Iori kept his eyes closed. Recalled his days of training, brutal as they were. His breathing exercises. His cool-downs. Remembered and applied them, regulating his breaths. He wasn't a fighter anymore, but those practices still had their uses.

He wasn't sure how much time passed when he next opened his eyes. The doctor was still there, observing him. He felt better now. Could move without passing out. Quickly, before he lost this tiny bit of strength, he grabbed his keys and wallet. His phone wasn't there. Where'd he put it? He needed it – couldn't leave without it.

"Are you looking for something, Yagami-san?"

"My phone."

The other man strode over, checked the stand and went towards the bed. Flipped the bloodstained sheets back and made an affirmative sound. "You left it here." The doctor took a hold of the device, walked over, and handed it to him. "You sure you don't need help?"

"I'll manage."

He pocketed the phone in his loose jeans and staggered towards the door.

Left without looking back.

If it wasn't for the elevator, he'd probably be half-dead by now. Even getting there nearly killed him and on the way down, Iori leaned into the corner, head flung back against the wall. He was a trembling broken wreck, and when the elevator pinged ground floor, he stumbled out. People gasped in horror around him, patients and staff alike. Ignoring them, Iori angled for the front desk. The girl sitting there stared, wide-eyed, as if uncertain to call for security or for a doctor.

"I'm…" He swallowed, throat dry. "I'm checking…out."

"Ah…you are…"

"Iori…Ya…Yagami."

The keyboard clacked beneath the girl's swift fingers. "Iori Yagami. Third floor, room five?"

He nodded. It was the third floor. He hadn't noticed his room number.

"Yagami-san…does the doctor –"

"Yes."

The girl bit her lip. She had short-cropped black hair, lashes thick with mascara, and lips painted red with gloss. She was young – probably younger than him – and he was frightening her. Without delay, she got his paperwork on the counter, ready to sign. There was a ballpoint pen chained to the clipboard. He picked it up, hand shaking.

It was a release form with notice of waiver and so-on-and-so-forth. He gave it a quick skim and scrawled his signature, kanji messy. Pushed the clipboard back at her, heard the quick sharp taps as she inputted the information, and told him it was done.

He left, almost colliding with people on his way out. Somehow, he stayed on his feet.

When he approached the sliding glass doors, he averted his gaze. Didn't want to see his reflection – didn't want to know.

Then, he was outside. The last rays of sunlight. Fresh air. Open space.

There was a taxi. Traffic was busy. He took it.

By the time he reached the park, twilight painted the sky an array of colors amidst a deepening night. His wallet was empty – the last of it paid the taxi driver's fee – and his phone battery was dying. Iori shut his phone's power off, conserving whatever was left. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything today, but as usual, didn't feel hungry. Thirst, he could deal with later. This was a park. They had water fountains here.

However, more urgent than food and drink was sleep. Relief from pain.

There were quiet sections in the park. Areas away from the crowd.

Iori headed in the direction of a secluded bench, hidden behind foliage and well-placed trees and bushes. No one would disturb him here. He could sleep in peace, awaiting tomorrow. His gait was awkward, temperature uncomfortable, and his shivering was uncontrollable. Already, his shirt sleeves were bloodstained – he kept coughing – and something was wrong with his eyes. He was afraid – none of the signs were good – but he'd already made it this far.

Soon. And then…

He lay down on the bench, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

Closed his eyes.

Comments: Iori's current weight is 58 kilograms (about 127-128 lbs.). In Chapter 20, he was 62 kilograms (136 lbs). 54 kilograms (120 lbs.) or below will lead to death. His official weight was 76 kilograms (168 lbs.), referenced again for comparison.