A/N: A little filler, but shedding some light on the extent of Soap's injuries. Next chapter moving on the story front.

Ch8: Battle Scars

Morning arrives, and so does Elle. Wakes me up like she always does. I'm thankful for her consistency in our routine.

"Good morning John."

"Morning Elle." I'm flat on my back, covering my face with my forearm. Maybe I should have skipped on the valium and taken the oxy instead. I feel a wash of calm over me though. A lot more composed than yesterday. But still shook up inside.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I focus on her voice. The touch of her hand as she moves up to my shoulder.

"Alright I guess." I huff out a sigh.

"I have some good news for you."

She keeps rubbing my shoulder.

"I have you scheduled for port removal on Friday."

I feel like I should be excited, but I can't muster the enthusiasm like I hear in Elle's voice.

"Alright, let's get you up. No languishing this morning."

Breakfast, walking, and kicking it up on PT. Jakob gets me started with light cardio on the stationary bike and delves into range of motion on my knees, hips and ankles. He's patient with me, but not afraid to push me, just like Elle does. Elle works with him directly with rehabbing my right arm.

I pick up reading The Plague Dogs that evening after being drug through the ringer and 4 longer walks down the gulag. No morphine again, but a handful of oxy in its place. I can only imagine what ordeal my liver must going through. It's been nothing but drugs and IV cocktails since I've been here. Can't imagine was being pushed on me earlier when I was in a coma.

Day 12. Wednesday. Dec 28, 2016

Spa day as Elle calls it. Tells me to expect it about every Wednesday. Bigger portions on my meals for starters. A few walks, but more scenic ones down to the atrium. Easy stretching. A lengthy massage. I feel like a million bucks for once without the pills.

She brings me into the bathhouse for a fresh cut and shave. When Elle leaves to grab some hot towels, I recognize Anna coming in and she's escorting someone to the barber chair next to mine. I give Anna an acknowledging smile. It's been some time since I've seen her.

"Hello John."

"Anna."

"You're looking good." She smiles, but a different kind of smile than the one Elle gives me. She helps her patient into the chair to my left. The guy looks physically fit, but when I see the large bandages covering the area of his knee I recognize where he's from.

"About to look even better here in a minute." I muse, feeling the heavy stubble along my jaw and chin.

Once Anna gets him seated I start sizing him up. He snaps his eyes on me and does likewise. It's a guy thing.

"I recognize you from the PT hall last week." I start.

"Name's Chad." He leans far over and extends his right hand. I hesitate before I offer my own.

"John. Careful mate. Shit's all jacked up."

He's firm but careful when he shakes my hand. He's powerful, through and through, top to bottom except for his knee. Even then I don't think it'd hold him back from kicking someone's ass. Hands like a steel trap, forearms like timber. Straight up reminds me of a grizzly bear, and probably just as rough around the edges. Reminds me of what I used to be. But he's a straight up Yank.

"You're that motherfucker who survived the explosion." He says matter-of-fact.

"I suppose. Don't remember anything about it though." I hear footsteps approaching down the hall outside of the room.

"That shit was insane. You were part of the 22nd and the one-four-one, right?" I give him a moderate shrug of 'I don't know' because I have no idea what he's talking about.

"We gotta get together and swap some stories. Could use the company."

"Sounds good." I reply. Elle's snuck up behind me and throws a towel over the back of my neck and shoulders. Nice and hot. I look up to acknowledge her presence.

"That's if Nurse Ratched here agrees."

"What's this nonsense about?" Elle looks taken back, mock insulted. I hear Chad snickering next to me.

"What are you two conspiring about now?"

"She's the boss of you too, huh?" Chad razzes, wearing a crooked smile. He reminds me of unruly teenager, but he has a few years on me. Anna starts working up a lather on the soap.

"Chad's invited me over to his place for a few drinks."

"Is that so? Elle's smiling a pleasant smile. Digs her fingers into my scalp and gives a solid itch, messing up my hair. I feel it tingle all the way down to my toes.

"Can't hog him all to yourself Elle." Chad warns.

"Who's the warden and who's the patient here Mr. Whitney?"

"I don't see your name at the top of my papers." He rebounds, snickering the whole time.

"Look harder then. Anna, you might need to check Mr. Whitney's eyes for delusions of grandeur."

Elle starts up the electric clippers, squaring me up in the mirror.

"Same as last time?"

I run my hand through the brush cut. Amazing how fast that grows too.

"Same as the last."

From our brief interview, I decide Chad Whitney seems like a cool guy. A Yank as expected, and worse yet, hails from New York but without the typical accent everyone talks about. Proudly calls himself an "Up-stater" –whatever that means. I'll have to ask him when I get the next opportunity.

Elle pampers the shit out of me. I don't think I've ever had it so good. It's a sunny day outside and she takes me out for a longer walk in the courtyard where we first went. The snow is over a foot deep and almost too bright. But I savor every moment being outside. It's invigorating.

Back at my room, Elle sits with me and we chat. Casual shooting the bull and making fun out of the commercials. Works me through a few hand exercises. Promises a field day with Chad. When I ask why she hasn't introduced me sooner to other patients, she gives me a fair response. People can help with healing, but they can also provide distractions, especially coming out of serious injury. And with coming out of a coma in a new place, establishing a small ring of trusted individuals to build a rapport was necessary. Too many people can be overwhelming, over stimulating, to a mind that's been through hell and back. Learning a patient's temperament and needs. Knowing when to back out of a situation. Knowing when to be there.

I admire her thoughtfulness on the process. Honestly cares about her work and takes each patient into consideration. I gain a greater appreciation for what she's done. I'm surprised when our conversation takes a turn. Some cheesy hospital soap is on and Elle's laughing at some of the ridiculous inaccuracies. As always, some trauma patient is rushed in through the double doors and there's a flurry of activity.

"I remember the day you arrived here."

Instantly my ears perk up, and I look over to her.

"It had been a nice day out otherwise. Rumors were filtering through we were receiving another shipment of severely wounded. The whole hospital was on standby. We started receiving patients around 2 in the afternoon and it didn't end until 3am. It was a slow but steady trickle. You were in the second to last group to arrive."

She extends my right arm, working out each finger and asks me to try to close my fist while she holds resistance.

"You were packed with probably half a ton of dirty rags, and clotting agents. You could smell the dead tissue before we even opened you up. We had to removal several feet of your intestines, and a portion of your liver and pancreas. They call it necrotic wound debridement. You were at risk of losing your right leg when we realized your femoral artery was collapsing.

I couldn't even begin tell you how many transfusions we had to do.

We lost you on the table three times that night just trying to stabilize you. Eight hours of surgery. You still weren't out of the clear, not by a long shot. We didn't think it anyone would be able to survive the amount of hemorrhaging you sustained. If the initial trauma didn't kill you, we figured infection or tissue necrosis would. Probably wouldn't make it more than 3 days despite our best efforts."

She closes my hand for me into a fist.

"A week before, I had just lost a patient when I had gone home for my pass days. I felt responsible for their death -that if I had been there, I could have prevented it. I don't think I left your room any more than I had to out of necessity. I wanted to know that if anything happened to you, I was going to be there, and know that I had done everything within my power."

Elle instructs me to hold it closed when she lets go. I maintain the clench longer than I expected, but when I go to relax my hand it's about a 10 second delay from what I think to what actually responds. Something about her words resonate with me. I know the feeling. I know I was responsible at one point for sending men to their untimely deaths.

"But you pulled through, John. You had plenty of bad nights. Like I've mentioned before, you would start screaming and yelling, pulling everything out and fight anyone who tried to lay a hand on you. That's how I knew you'd come around. You're a fighter."

The information is deep, as it is heavy. Elle's never poured out like this before. It also explains some of the wicked scars I've acquired. And how lucky I am to be alive. Or maybe I'm better suited to say, 'back from the dead.' Another supporting testament to Elle comparing my existence to a ghost.

"So what does someone do for 9 weeks bedside with a stranger?" That's an awful long time to sit around someone in a coma. Especially one you've never met before. It'd be one thing if it was family or a friend, but…a complete stranger?

"Much of what we do now, except the conversations were more one sided." Elle gives a lighthearted laugh.

"Changing dressings, checking the progress of the incisions healing, monitoring bodily functions and output. Ordering medication. Physical therapy. I read to you. A lot. I personally believe it helps the person in a coma recover faster, stimulating activity in the brain. There's been supporting studies on the subject."

She's holding my hand and massaging my palm, working her way up my wrist.

"I know that if I was in a coma, I'd like it if someone actually sat with me. Acknowledged me. Didn't treat me like some inanimate object in the room. Everyone deserves the best possible chances for recovery."

"I appreciate it Elle." Even if I don't always say it.

There had been plenty of days, especially in the beginning that I was unruly [that was a nice way of putting it]. I'm sure Elle had some choice names for me behind my back too, and I don't blame her if she does.

She gives a dismissing laugh.

"You need to stop thanking me John."

Elle informs me she'll go over a more detailed report of everything they've done to me during my stay at Steinn Aflinn. Apparently my cognitive function and reasoning center is up to par to handle heavy comprehensive information. After she leaves for the evening I try not to focus on the newly divulged information regarding my injuries. Tomorrow I'm going to get the complete rundown. Might be the more appropriate time to ask questions.

I know I could have done it tonight, but Elle had already overstayed her normal hours. She deserves time to herself. Especially after practically baby sitting my ass since October. As I start on a fresh page in my journal I can't help but pass by the black crosshatched page. I can feel the image slightly underneath like brail, but there's no way to distinguish it.

Morning begins early as usual. Elle and Jakob start me off with some serious stretches before telling me their putting me through a physical battery test. She was supposed to document my progress last week (and every following one thereafter) but signed a waiver. Said the last thing I needed was to be unnecessarily put through the ringer when I was just beginning to make progress.

There's a slew of range of motion tests, resistance, reflex, and responses. Blood work as expected. More of the typical stuff you expect when you go in for a regular medical exam.

It's a tiring process, mostly because of its demanding structure. Couple times I asked for a break, not because I'm exhausted but for the pain. I push back on lunch and finish out the exam.

Elle's brought in extra leftovers and goes over my results. She's courteous when asks if she wants to go over my results before, or after lunch, and I tell her I've never been squeamish over that kind of stuff.

Femoral artery repair with stint. Approximately 4 foot of necrotic large intestine removed. 1/3 of hemorrhaged liver removed. A small part of the pancreas. Severe trauma to the stomach. The lower half of my ribs broken, the upper half fractured, a select number broken. Collapsed lung. Shattered left ankle now equip with pins, and plate in the fibula. Titanium rods in my left forearm, more pins and plates. Chunk of bone removed from my right elbow, but the bigger concern in the nerve damage from my shoulder down. Series of minor fractures in my cervical vertebrae, several low lumbar. Both collar bones busted. Broken nose and fractured orbital socket. Minor fractures across my pelvis. Concussion. Two rounds of pneumonia. Infection as result from hemorrhage and necrotic tissue.

And she concludes it all with,

"I think you made out pretty good considering. Now onto the good news."

Infection –gone. Majority of my breaks healed and others on the mend. Increased range of motion in all areas of my movements. Increased response in my right hand, though the damage is still substantial –some of it probably permanent at this point. All bodily functions working up to par. Obvious forward progress with being taken off the feeding port and moving onto real food. I've put on 1.6kg. My memories are still a jumble, but overall my mental capacity is firing on all cylinders. Still requiring medication for pain management, but I'm off of the morphine and onto the Oxycontin.

Tomorrow I'm having the port in my chest officially removed. Local anesthetic and should be fairly minor. I'm not too worried, this is the least of my concerns at this point.

After Elle leaves for the night, I spend a little quality time looking myself over in the bathroom mirror. I was glad when they upgraded rooms that I finally had access to a mirror.

All the new scars. The one on my chest is the worst looking. It's finally mended but it looks like it's had a belt sander taken to it. I press on it, feeling the knotted divot below the surface of the skin, the piece of bone missing from the knife. It carries with it a dark reminder of betrayal, though I can't quite recall exactly who or what still.

The second noticeable one starts below the sternum, follows centerfold and ends just above my hip. The scarring is clean and minimal considering the length of it. The one along my forearm and ankle are thin and clean. Precise. A good surgeon's hallmark. The artery stint no more than an inch incision inside the thigh. Elbow a gloss of scar tissue in an angular design.

There's the old one on my face. Lucky I didn't lose an eye when that one happened.

The rest are minor. Every gunshot faded. The dog bites, the random other cuts and scrapes marking both forearms equally.

A living canvass of survival.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a little nervous about getting a local anesthetic to remove the port when morning comes. I trust Elle, I trust Jakob and the other staff I've met around here, but there's nothing worse than being doped so your high as a kite and can't function. Elle insists on keeping me comfortable and taking the edge off my nerves. I do my best to believe her –she hasn't done wrong by me yet, but I still wasn't going to put my faith in anyone further than I could throw them –and that wasn't very far. Absolute zero.

I don't remember what time it started. Or what time it ended. I know I just feel fucking amazing. By dinner I feel more like myself, but my face hurts. Elle tells me I was laughing the entire time.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. I'm sure for some of you the action is non existent, but part of Soap's journey is facing his past, and overcoming his injuries and disabilities., the one seen and unseen. Next chapter holds some plot moving forward. Please leave a review if you have any suggestions, they're always appreciated!