A/N: Another big chapter I couldn't afford to split. We start to see more melding interactions and the building world outside of the bedroom walls, and a glimpse of what was.
Ch6: Aðfangadagskvöld
My second week starts off on a better foot than my first one. Quiet literally. Though the gains seem small, every day puts me a step closer to becoming whole. Elle want to push her focus on getting me to walk comfortably. My shattered ankle required surgery, with the addition of a few plates and bolts.
The hardest part isn't the pain. I can work through that. It's the trust. Trusting in your body to do what it needs to do when you ask of it. It doesn't help I've taken a tumble or two during my first week of rehab and readjusting to the world. Elle introduces a small set of stairs. Going up wasn't too bad. It was coming back down. The sensation of all of your weight compressing on the battered cartilage, severed tendons, and 3 newly fused bones.
It shouldn't be as bad as it could be –Elle says I'm down about 13.5 lbs from when I came in. That's what happens when you lead the sedentary lifestyle of a plant. The only reason I have half my strength is because of the intense work they've done for me here while I was in a coma –namely Elle. Apparently she's a big deal around here.
"I know you can do it John." Elle's voice cuts into my thoughts like a goddamn ray of sunshine. It warrants a death threat by non-verbal cues.
"One more." She prompts. I'm not taking it. I was mentally done and checked out 2 stair climbs ago.
When I hold fast, I see her nose twitch. I don't know if she realizes that she does it –mostly when she's trying to keep up that peppy attitude after she's been Stonewalled.
"Left leg first. Let's go." It's not a plea, it's an order. I stare her down, but she's giving me that look. A look that promises that somehow, someway, she'll find a way to make my life agonizing. Because I'm trapped here. And she serves it with a smile.
"Last set. Promise." She squeezes my shoulder. "Come on big guy."
Nothing like psyching yourself up for such a simple task. You'd think she was asking me to deactivate a [nuclear] bomb.
I brace my arms on the rails and reach down until I feel the top of the step. Elle and Jakob are both there. Not too close to make me conscious of fucking up. I rock my weight forward, wincing when my heel settles. I push myself the rest of the way through it until I feel the tendon in the back of my knee start to buckle.
"Remember to breathe John." Elle gives a soft laugh, breaking my focus.
I didn't realize I was holding it in this whole time. Or how white my knuckles were from gripping so tight.
"Follow through." The second part comes easy, almost too easy. I'm tilt my leg like a lazy horse, taking off the weight as soon as I'm down.
"That's great John!" Elle praises. She's warming up before gets up to the plate.
Great. Only 3 fucking more to go.
Day 7. I survived the stairs. And apparently their going to be a wonderful, fucking, regular addition to my routine. I'd rather do planks for 4 hours on end. I'd rather deal with fucking DOGS. I don't quite know what it is that bothers me so much about the stairs. Maybe it's because I can't do a single task without having someone there watching my back. I've never felt so helpless.
Back at my room I get to enjoy "my time." I'm catching up in my journal. What should have been done in a few minutes of deep thought undisturbed, is taking an ungodly amount of time, effort and concentration. Learning to rewrite with my left hand. Legibly. Might even be sweating a little. Doodling comes a touch easier. I'm documenting my surroundings, sketching the layout of my room, and the parts of this building I've been to. I decide to take a break and stretch my wrist. It's far more functional than its counterpart, but not without its impediments of fashionable plates, rods, and screws. I glance towards my windows, and note that it's already dark outside. It's also snowing.
Day 8
I wake up to the sound of squeaking shoes from the hallway, accompanied with a bustle of low whispered chatter. It's pitch black outside, but I can hear faint tapping against the window. Must still be snowing. I remain still and listen in. I've picked up just a handful of words of the native dialect, but it seems most of the staff here is well versed in multiple languages. And the TV is usually in English with subtitles, so I'm limited in what I can pick up. I pick out Elle's voice against the rest. She sounds energized and excited.
Woop-dee-do. I was probably going to choke on all the enthusiasm she was exuding. And she wasn't even through the door yet.
When she walks in, she's a hot mess. Her hair is in every which way and she has a frazzled look on her face, but she's still smiling the moment she sees me.
"Good morning John."
"Mornin' Elle." She grabs my hand, running her thumb across my knuckles, and it's surprisingly cold. That's when I notice her cheeks and nose are flush.
"You got something hanging there." I do nothing to hold back a gloating smirk when she looks at me, embarrassed. She pulls away and goes to the small bathroom, blowing her nose. After she's done washing her hands she comes back, laughing and sniffling.
"Thank you for that. That would have been awful." Elle never misses a beat and gets back to our morning routine, comparing charts, numbers, and visually inspecting each line.
"Is it still snowing out?"
"Yes, it is. It snowed all through the night."
She's practically beaming when she says it. Usually people dread surplus snowfall, with all the clean up and inconvenience that comes with it. It's when Elle's dropping the bedside rail I request a shave like last time, and without question she agrees. Almost too excitedly.
"Hey Elle," She stops what she's doing and gives me her full attention, leaning on the edge of the bed.
"Yes, John?"
"I want to go outside today. I've been trapped inside this place too long."
Elle serves her response with another smile.
"Anything for you John,"
I get a heartier breakfast with a few more solid items included. Oatmeal with some fruit. tea, lightly sweetened, applesauce. After that it's right to the poking, the prodding, and preliminary stretching to get me warmed up before throwing me through the gulag. I try to take in today with a better attitude, but after a set or two of stairs I'm feeling a bit irritable. Elle changes it up and moves onto some upper work. Stretches to regain mobility and movement in my neck. Resistance work on my right arm to promote strength building, muscle memory, and nerve stimulation.
It leaves me feeling frustrated despite Elle's encouragement. Maybe even worse than those stairs. I can't even express it. Without any use or function of my dominant hand, I knew my days of combat were limited, and I sure as hell wouldn't be worth much as a field officer. Or much of anything.
We break for lunch. Elle surprises me with a contraband box of food –a small portion of pierogies, and a slice turkey. I ask what's the special occasion.
"It's Christmas Eve!"
"Oh."
It's Christmas Eve?!
…
Christmas. Fucking. Eve?!
In my haste to keep track of everything, I had lost touch with some of the bigger details. Not that a holiday was exactly on my list of priorities. Elle salvages the conversation like a well oiled machine.
"Yes, Christmas Eve. Or as we call it, aðfangadagskvöld."
…
The fuck she just say?
"That's a mouthful." I'm dumbstruck, I don't even have a response for that witchcraft language.
She hides a laugh, falling back in her chair with her meal cradled in her lap.
"Eat your food while it's still hot!"
We go one to talk about what her plans are for Christmas. It sounds like it will be well spent with her family. Her brother's hosting at his place this year, though Elle will be providing support with the cooking. She actually has the holiday off tomorrow.
After lunch, Elle passes me off to Jakob for cardio when she gets paged for a call. Jakob's a cool guy, a young man of few words, but he's smart. Sharp. Deceptively strong. You never figure a nurse would be strong, but then again, they spend all day lifting dead weight and the assisting the feeble. I pry into his life a little and ask the basics. He pitches back and we get a little guy chat in. Share some laughs. It's a welcomed change of pace from Elle's soprano chatter.
He's Elle protégé. And I can see why too. He's patient, diligent, methodical in his approach. A positive outlook, but he doesn't allow it to cloud his judgment. Confident, but still second guessing himself in certain fields. Book smart, but a work in progress on his practical field work. He listens. Vaguely reminds me of someone I once met before. He's been under her mentor for over two years and is working toward finishing up his schooling.
By the time he turns me over to Elle, I'm physically spent but feeling better than last time. After a good hot shower and the promised shave, I get another round of contraband home cooking with Elle's company. As the dinner conservation winds down, Elle pops the question.
"You still feeling up for an adventure?" she asks, referring to my earlier request.
"Do you even have to ask?"
It takes a little bit to gear up for the elements. Elle's able to scrounge up some extra items they've collected over the years. She's decked out in a full parka, tall boots and knit beanie. Since it's a bit of a walk out to the courtyards she insists on wheeling me over there. I blatantly tell her no. I'm determined to walk there on my own. I'm tired of not being able to do anything on my own.
She's not kidding when says it's a jaunt, but the walk there is rather nice. Steinn Aflinn bears obvious heavy French influence in its architecture –both decedent and modest. I only catch part of one of the main lobby in passing, with a recessed glass atrium. We bear in the opposite direction of the front lobby and eventually arrive at another atrium –a long hall of glass that's partially encased by the snowfall. The courtyard outside is exclusively dark, the only visible light coming from lampposts that line the walkways and from the windows of other buildings that remain unseen in the night.
Elle gets the door and keeps a steady hand on my back when we step outside. There's a little wind that produces small skirls of snow over the piled banks and snow drifts. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of the night. The air is cold, clean, and crisp, instantly freezing anything in my airways. Actually burns in a good way. We walk side by side down the shoveled path, half filled in by the drifts until we reach the edge of the penumbra from the atrium's corner lights. Over the top of the eastern buildings I can see the slow blinking aircraft warning lights that mark a tower in the distance.
It takes me back to a place. A couple of places, but I can't decipher which one belongs to which. My immediate instinct says Russia. Half of my memory has me playing overwatch from a cliff. Another has me somewhere like here –dark, old stone. The place smells wet and musty, like an old forest. I mouth the words that drift into my conscious.
Six.
Two.
Seven.
627
Prisoner number. 627.
"Was it all you imagined John?"
Elle's voice snaps me back to reality like the crack of a whip. I felt myself going down a rabbit hole just now and she grabbed me by the nape of the neck and pulled me back out. I don't like the feeling. It's laced with the unshakable sensation that it's going to be a one way trip down, and I have no contingency plan how to climb back up. I don't think I'm ready for it yet, but I keep finding myself staggering down that path.
"It's cold out."
It's just hovering at -1˚C.
"What did you expect, captain obvious?"
Her body shakes as she starts to laugh at me. A good natured laugh. I catch myself smiling back. Being outside has me starting to come around. Back in my element, riling the instincts. The bitter cold's a reminder that there's a world outside the confines of my bed and the hospital.
"Thanks Elle." I try not to sound ungrateful, but apparently I'm not the furnace I once was. The cold's seeping into the metal plates and pins. Like an ice pick being driven in by a hammer. But I don't want to go back. Not yet.
"You don't need to thank me. It's the least I can do." I feel her hand move lower and she gently tugs on my arm.
"Ready to head in?"
Pretty sure I was losing some feeling in my fingers.
"Yeah, I'm ready."
The walk back takes twice as long. By the time I break the threshold of my room I'm ready to tap out. Elle never lets go. She makes sure she gets me settled back in and gives a last scout over my charts. Another round on antibiotics. A touch of morphine to take the edge off the cravings and the pain. It hits with such a calming rush.
"How are we feeling John?"
"Fucking great." Food. Fresh air. Guy talk. A work out and a superior shave. Yeah, it was a pretty fucking awesome day.
"Good news, this is your final round with antibiotics. We'll find out in the next few days how everything plays out. I'd like to get these lines out next. I'm sure you'd like to be free of them too."
Check, and double check. More progress on the horizon. On the counter point, that also meant no more of that wonderful direct drip. Time to make a big step toward sobriety.
"And to honor Icelandic tradition, I picked up something for you on my way in today."
She rifles through her jacket pockets.
"I thought leaving you to your own devices may not be the best of ideas, so I picked up a little, entertainment. I'm not sure what you're into, but I figured something close to home might be nice."
I'm not sure what to expect at this point. When she finds what she's looking for, she holds it out for me to accept.
"Another book?" I glance down at the cover.
The Plague Dogs.
I give her a suspicious look. I think she's trying to pull some sort of prank. As I give the cover another once over, I can't help but notice the savage bite marks along my forearm and the back of my hands.
"You know any story involving a dog is only going to end badly." Not that I was complaining. One less mutt in the world.
"You don't need to be so cynical John. It's a good read. And it was the only appealing book I could find printed in English."
"I'm not being any more cynical than I have been. It's just the truth." I set it down in my lap. Elle's shrugging her jacket on, pulling the straggling hairs out from under the collar.
"Elle. Thank you. I appreciate everything you've done for me."
"You don't need to thank me John. It's my job. Seeing you come around is what makes my job worth it."
Elle smiles at me with some strange sort of look. Tired, maybe. She takes my hand one more time.
"Now, don't stay up too late. Goodnight John."
"Goodnight Elle. Enjoy the time with your family."
There's a slight squeeze before she lets go. As she passes the threshold, she gives a parting wave.
I sigh, and look back down at the latest gift bestowed to me. Elle really outdoes herself. I wonder if she's like this with her other patients. I grab my journal from the bedside stand and open up to a fresh page.
A/N: The Plague Dogs is an actual book, and on my to-read list (picking it up this weekend), but I've seen the film. I chose this book specifically because I thought it was so symbolic, and with a touch of irony for obvious reasons. Another big chapter that couldn't afford to be broken apart. Thanks again!