Chapter 7:

Scotty's mind swam in a haze, drifting in an endless sea of jumbled thoughts and vague sensations. He drifted endlessly in the expansive sea, not even attempting to fight or struggle or flail. The cold darkness was so comforting, so soothing. He felt as though he could simply drift in the mire forever and he wouldn't mind at all. This was a nice feeling. While he remained immersed in the pleasant waters of numbness, he was not bothered by pain. He was not pestered with feelings of discomfort or stress or disappointment. No, everything felt good, right here in this dark little world of his.

Sadly, the pleasing lack of feeling was interrupted far too early for his liking. He could vaguely register the unwelcome sensation of motion, and noise, and lights. All of these new stimuli were sharp, lancing, and whenever they presented themselves to the fallen superstar, his head felt like it was being jabbed by searing knives. The light was blinding, despite his closed eyelids. It was like he was staring directly at the sun no matter where he turned his head. The blinding light assaulted him from every direction, maddening in its persistence, and there was just no way to escape it. The young man considered blocking his eyes with his arm, but it wouldn't move. Why wasn't his arm cooperating? Was something holding it in place or did it just not want to listen to the stern command his mind had issued it? Nothing he did seemed to work, and the blinding light continued to torture him.

He heard noises too; loud, screeching, unpleasant noises. He couldn't decipher their origin or their meaning, but he was fully aware of their undeniable presence. Any noise that reached his ears -- no matter how minor -- scraped against his eardrums until they rattled and shook with such force that the young man's head literally felt like it was going to explode.

Every beat of his heart sent a surge of raw pain through his head as blood was pumped insistently through his veins. The noise became deafening, but it did not cease in its relentless cadence, Ba-domp......Ba-domp......Ba-domp......over and over and over again. Every steady beat of his heart sent life-giving blood coursing through his veins and through his broken body. Every beat sent spurts of the precious liquid dribbling out of the vicious gash on his forehead, saturating his upper body and drenching his skin. It was driving him crazy. He could feel the undeniable presence of the warm liquid dripping and oozing over his skin, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He couldn't even wipe his eyes. Blast, why couldn't he move his arm? If only he could regain control of his appendages, he might be able to mollify his situation somewhat. But no, it was no use. His arms remained firmly planted to his sides, resisting his every effort to move them.

Where was he going? He knew he was moving; he could feel the slight breeze against his cold, clammy skin associated with movement, but where was he going? Why was he going there? Would it be a good idea to allow himself to be taken there? Should he fight it? What if he was going somewhere unpleasant? No, that wouldn't make sense. Besides, how could things possibly get any worse than they were now? No, it would be best to simply conserve his energy and allow this movement to continue. After all, no harm had been associated with this motion, so why should he have anything to fear?

More lights......more noise......more talking......yes, he could definitely make out talking now. There were people nearby, and they continued to talk to each other -- or maybe even to him, although if they were, he could not hear them, let alone answer. Scotty could not make out their words; his mind was too jumbled and the trauma of the evening was just too great. Evening? Yes, it was night time, wasn't it? What had happened? Why was all this happening? Nothing made any sense.

Quite suddenly, he felt as if he was in a closed space with no air to breathe and no room to move around -- if he could move, that is. He tried to move his arm once again, but was met with the same resistance. It figured as much; but he had to try, didn't he? There was no way of knowing if he could move or not unless he actually tried.

More movement, although this time, there was no pleasant breeze blowing against his skin. He was moving very fast, though. Strangely enough, the blazing lights above him were not moving with him. They were simply fixed there, directly above him, shining merciless beams of stabbing light directly through his closed eyelids. Wait a minute, were his eyelids even closed? Were his eyes open? Had they been open this whole time? Damnit, why couldn't he move his arm?!

More movement, more voices. The sterile lights flashed above him as he moved hurriedly across the meticulously-tiled floor, pushed along by a great number of people. At least, he could only assume they were people......but really, what else could they be? Yes, things were beginning to come together. Things were beginning to make sense.

Scotty decided to try to focus on where he was and maybe try to work his way up from there. He allowed his eyes to lazily run along the moving ceiling -- no, of course the ceiling wasn't moving. Was it? No, he was moving and the ceiling was stationary. His movement simply gave it the appearance of motion.

Straining his bloodshot eyes, the young superstar tried to focus all of his attention on the fleeting flashes of light above him. After several moments, he was able to discern between separate flashes of light, but the more effort he put into it, the more the lights began to blur and meld together into one. Without even realizing it until it had already happened, the lights has all formed into one giant conglomeration, beaming down on him with the power of the sun. He blinked, and the light subsided for an instant. Wait...blinked? Scotty tried to blink again; much to his delight, he found that he could actually do so. He tried it a few more times just to make sure he had the simple command memorized, and left his eyelids closed. The blinding light was not so blinding now, and Scotty was satisfied with that.

And then, quite suddenly, the world around him exploded. Voices suddenly became more evident, shrill machines began to make deafeningly loud noises, and he was left with the sensation that his body was being ripped apart. Panicked, the young man tried to focus on everything happening around him in an effort to be more informed about his current situation, but a thick plastic mask was thrust over his mouth and nose and he was suddenly overcome with a noxious odor.

Scotty coughed into the mask, but it only continued to pump the foul-smelling fumes into his lungs. He tried desperately to move his arms once again, but they were firmly pinned to his sides. If only he could move them......if only......

But before he could make another attempt or even form another rational thought, he slipped back into the swirling mire of dark waters that he had been floating in not too long ago. This time, the waters were not peaceful and his mind was not so relaxed. No, he drifted hurriedly, desperately, towards some unknown destination that he had no control over. The waters were carrying him somewhere, and there was nothing he could do to protest his unwilling transmission.

And then, not even the darkness would harbor him. He fell into a dark whirlpool in the sea of blackness, and everything went blank. His thoughts, his concerns, his emotions, his feelings......all of it was gone, wiped clean, erased.

He slept, unfeeling, unknowing, uncaring.

Calm......

Empty......

Nothing more......

Scotty woke up shakily at first, uncertain of whether he was even alive or if the darkness had ultimately consumed him. His groggy mind focused on something in front of him, but it appeared blurry, disoriented. It didn't make sense. What was going on? Was there anything in front of him at all or was it all an illusion? Was everything around him simply an illusion?

He drifted back into oblivion.

An undeterminable amount of time passed, and when the young man's mind resumed its tenuous grip on reality, he was determined not to let go this time. He opened his eyes slowly, uncertainly, and the first thing he realized was light -- not the unpleasant, blinding, searing light from before, but a soft, warm glow that welcomed his woozy senses and urged him to open his eyes further.

When he determined that he had opened his eyes as much as he could, Scotty blinked in an effort to clear his vision of the crusty aftereffects of sleep. He impulsively lifted his arm to clear his lashes of the obscuring particles, and was quite delighted to find that his arms and hands were actually cooperating. He rubbed his eyes clean, then focused on flexing his arms and fingers in an effort to ascertain their presence and their willingness to accept his mind's orders; they complied without any resistance whatsoever.

From there, it was a simple matter of painstakingly analyzing every nuance of his body in an effort to ascertain the extent of his control. Aside from some protest from his forehead and his abdomen, he found that he could move fairly well; his entire body felt sore and stiff, but it certainly wasn't the worse scenario he could think of.

What happened? Scotty asked himself. He strained to get his lethargic mind working again, but doing so only succeeded in immersing the young man in a sea of memories and emotions. So much had happened, how was he supposed to make sense out of any of it?

Scotty gritted his teeth in concentration. He was going to remember what had happened to him if it took him all day. Slowly at first -- then with growing momentum -- he was able to piece together the events of the previous night.

He remembered the match with Luther Reigns, along with most of the details of that encounter. He remembered having his head thrown into the ring post, followed by the unhindered flowing of blood down his face. After that......he remembered Luther picking him up and sticking his head under his arm. There was movement after that, but he couldn't quite remember what happened next. His head swam as he tried to recall what he had experienced.

The next thing he knew, he was in the ring with his head under Reigns' arm again, and then there was more darkness, more pain. Nothing made sense after that.

He remembered the voice of the ring announcer......yes, the ring announcer. He had said something that had made Scotty upset when he heard it. What was it? The US Title? Was that it? Yes, that must have been it.

After that, he remembered sitting upright and walking up the ramp without the help of the medics. He waved to the crowd, thanked them for their support, and then he made his way to the back. Everything after that was a complete blur, but he was left with the distinct impression that everything after this point had been particularly aversive. The young man decided that he had done well enough for the time being.

Scotty sighed as he shifted to a more comfortable position in the hospital bed he occupied. The room was small and it smelled far too sterile to be natural. The superstar wrinkled his nose but decided that it wasn't all that bad; it could certainly smell worse, after all.

He glanced around at his surroundings: he was right next to the window, which was nice, and the bed next to him was empty. There was a television on the wall in front of him, and a table and two chairs off to the side. There was also a framed picture of water lilies hanging on the far wall, although it was too dusty to convey the comforting sense it was clearly designed to invoke. Besides, it was hanging crooked, and that in itself was annoying.

There was nothing else in the sterile room aside from that. It was small -- almost claustrophobic -- but not altogether distasteful. The young man searched the side of his bed for the call button and found it tangled up in the cord of his IV. He pressed it and sank back into his bed, awaiting assistance.

After a few minutes of uneventful waiting, a plump, middle-aged nurse walked into the room. Scotty smiled as best as he could and said, "Hey, sorry to bother you."

The woman forced a smile onto her face and said, "No, not at all, Mr. Garland. What can I get for you?"

"Well, actually, I was just wondering if I could speak to a doctor or something. I'm kind of hazy about what happened in the past 24 hours, and I'd appreciate it if someone could fill me in," the young man explained.

Something flickered across the face of the nurse, but Scotty couldn't quite decipher its meaning. The woman said, "Of course. Let me go find Dr. Alstadt right away."

"Thank you," Scotty said as the nurse walked off.

The young man tried to rest his hands behind his head, but a sharp pain in his torso caused him to cease his movement immediately. He inhaled sharply, then slowly lowered his arms back down to his sides. His ribs were damaged, although he could not tell to what extent.

Scotty decided to take this time to try and assess the damage that had been inflicted upon him. Aside from the obvious injuries to his ribcage, he was also aware of a dull throbbing in his head. He slowly, tentatively, reached up a hand to feel his forehead, and was somewhat startled when his fingers brushed against gauze instead of the flesh that he had expected. He traced the length of gauze around his head and found that his entire forehead had been wrapped up; that wound must have been more serious than he originally thought.

Aside from the standard aches and pains associated with surgery and trauma, he could not detect any more substantial areas of pain or discomfort, I guess I should be thankful that it wasn't my neck again, Scotty mused as he unconsciously rubbed at his surgically-repaired neck. It was still in danger of being damaged again, and Scotty was just happy that it had remained intact through everything.

After a great deal of inactivity, Scotty looked up to find a thin man dressed all in white walk through the door, clipboard in hand. He walked over to the bedridden superstar and extended his hand, "Mr. Garland, I presume? My name is Dr. Alstadt. How are you feeling?"

Scotty shook the man's hand and managed a hoarse laugh, "Not too hot, thanks for asking. I'll probably feel better once my mind starts working properly again."

The doctor adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses and nodded sagely, "Yes, you were out of it for quite some time, it seems. You've been resting for three days now."

Scotty knitted his eyebrows together, "Three days? But the match just happened last night."

Dr. Alstadt pulled a chair up alongside the bed and explained, "No, I'm afraid not. The painkillers have distorted your sense of time, it seems. Your injuries were inflicted three days ago at your last event. Can you remember anything about that night?"

Scotty leaned back and exhaled slowly. Had he really been out of it for three entire days? Why did it feel like he had just been in that match last night? He simply sighed in resignation and answered the doctor's question, "Yeah, I remember most of it. I'm still kind of hazy on some parts, though."

"Understandable," Dr. Alstadt said patiently, "You suffered from considerable trauma to the head. That, coupled with a dangerously high amount of blood loss, led to some fairly serious problems."

"Yeah, about that," Scotty interjected, "What's wrong with me? Is there anything that I should be particularly worried about?"

"No, not at the moment," the skinny man said with a slight shake of his head, "You lost a lot of blood that night, but we were able to prevent it from clotting and leading to a stroke or worse. Several of your ribs were also damaged -- two cracked and three bruised. I can show you the x-rays if you'd like......"

"No, that's okay," Scotty said hastily, "I'll take your word for it. Just......give me a time frame, will you? How long am I going to be out of action?"

"Well, I'm afraid I really can't give you an accurate figure. You would need to speak with your primary physician about that," the doctor explained, "Unless any more complications come up, I believe you should be healed enough to check out in about forty-five days. As far as how much longer you will have to wait before returning to your job......well, like I said, that is not my place to speculate."

Scotty nodded understandingly. He would have to call his doctor sometime soon, but that could wait. His health was much more important at this point in time. He closed his eyes as his head began to throb once again.

"I can contact your primary physician if you'd like and relay his diagnosis back to you," Dr. Alstadt offered.

Scotty turned back to him and mustered a halfhearted smile, "Yes, I would appreciate that, sir. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," the doctor said as he turned to leave the room, "You just worry about getting better. Just remember: if you need anything, don't hesitate to use the call button."

"Okay, thanks," Scotty said to the retreating doctor.

Dr. Alstadt made his way to the door silently, clipboard still in hand. However, upon reaching the doorway, he turned back around and addressed the injured man, "You know, Mr. Garland, as a medical professional, I have seen a great deal of injuries stemming from your line of work. In my opinion, I believe that the health risks associated with the world of professional wrestling are simply not worth the money or the fame of whatever else entices you folks to pursue this way of life. I do not wish to tell you how to live your life, Mr. Garland, but have you ever considered switching professions? I ask because I am concerned about your health and the health of all the other men and women who work alongside you. I have seen too many serious injuries to condone your choice of work, and it may be feasible for you to begin searching elsewhere for a safer occupation. Have you ever entertained such thoughts, Mr. Garland?"

Scotty just turned to the doctor standing in the doorway, "No sir, I haven't. I honestly can't imagine myself doing anything else. It's as simple as that," he answered with complete candor.

The doctor simply shrugged and left the room, presumably to contact the injured superstar's primary physician. Scotty made himself more comfortable in his hospital bed and tried not to let any disturbing thoughts invade his momentary peace.

It was true what he had told the doctor; wrestling was his life, his passion, and he had never entertained thoughts of switching careers because there was no other career for him. Wrestling was the only thing he could ever see himself doing. To betray that would be unthinkable.

As the injured young superstar drifted off to sleep, thoughts of his triumphant return to Smackdown were already beginning to form in his head. He couldn't wait to get back.