To: cptn-jacks-bonnie-lass
- my first review on this one, yeah! Thank you, thank you! And yes "very different" is what I tend to do…I'm really enjoying writing this one - because it's such a departure for me - particularly stylistically. I haven't written first person presant tense in... longer than I care to admit to in public grin It's just a little creepy getting THAT caught up in Sands' head.
Even though he isn't actually going to see it, I'd like to publically acknowledge my wonderful, supportive, amazing husband for putting up with the amount of time I spend writing. He's the best.
Chapter Two:
Cowboys and Angels
Pine. Cinnamon? Rustling paper. Old furniture. You know the smell – sort of like mothballs and rotting fabric…? Yeah, pew-yew is right, kemo sabe.
Against my back, I feel scratchy fabric. I'm sitting up. I feel dizzy – then it lifts. Vanilla candles. I smell vanilla candles. What the fuck?
Slowly, I open my eyes… and realize I have eyes to open.
It was just a dream? Oh, Christ… but… wait. There's more.
No.
Christ, no.
I inhale raggedly and try to figure out where I am.
I'm seated on a green, yellowand pink sofa - it is the most unimaginably tacky floral print. There are boxy side tables on either side, each sporting ahideous, hideous lamp… the carpet is gold - thin... worn... there's a little black and white TV set in the corner…a statue of a llama stands on a shelf by the door... I painted that staute. Needless to say, it's just as well I never pursued a career in art.
Yes... yes... of course...this is my mother's living room. The one from the first apartment she had when I was little – only I can tell by the way the room looks so small that I'm not little any more… except that I am, I can see myself, sitting next to the Christmas tree, looking at the scant booty… but I seem to remember having been happy. It's easy to be happy when you're a kid. A cowboy hat and plastic pistol are all it really takes. I watch myself rip into the presents – and there it is – that hat. Gawd, does it look cheesy to my adult eyes – but to the eyes of a child who worships guys like the Lone Ranger, that big white hat is the most beautiful sight in the world. Until I get to the pistols. Real, genuine, shiny silver plastic and tin – complete with a real, genuine pleather holster and gun belt… and the vest. God, I'd almost forgotten about that vest – it's got fringe and there's a sheriff's badge to go with it… I think I was six.
Sleepily, Mom comes in from the bedroom – it's gotta be like five a.m. Alison is still asleep in the room we share – I remember trying to wake her up, but at two, she didn't quite grasp the significance of December twenty fifth. By next year she will.
I look at my mother – both me's do – fuck, this should be weirder than it is. Mom looks tired – not just sleepy. Worn out. Defeated. She lights a cigarette and ambles towards the kitchen to make herself a pot of coffee. It's all she's going to have for breakfast or lunch. Times were lean. But she's smiling.
The adult me sees the smile on her face for what it is – sad. The kid just sees the smile with no real way to know what it's all about – he's too busy showing her what Santa's brought. I think it was another five or six years before I swore I'd never be that poor again. Even if it wasn't her fault – when your old man runs out on you and your only life skill is housewife and mommy… things get lean fast.
And maybe I didn't make it to her funeral – but I made sure she got what he owed her.
See, I've never spoken to my father – but when some compromising photos showed up on his desk one morning – well, he had his reputation to protect. Not to mention his third marriage. The note with the photos just said that it would be an awful shame if the third Mrs. Sands ended up seeing those same pictures – but if he could manage to start paying the first Mrs. Sands some of that back child support and alimony, it would go a long way towards making sure no one else ever found out what I knew… funny how the money started flowing after that. Yeah, I'm a creep, just like him – but at least I've taken care of my obligations. Emma will never go without. Neither will Holly – wonder what she'll say when she discovers I put her on my life insurance… her and Alison. They'll probably both say the same thing: too little, too late. But at least I take care of my obligations…
The sound of my mother crying draws me to the kitchen – she's weeping so softly the child me can't hear… I stand back and watch her get herself back under control. No, I wasn't about to hug her. I am not a touchy feely person – haven't you picked up on that by now? Christ.
No, I just stand and watch. I know this is some kind of dream – I know I'm going to wake up in a cell somewhere – or strapped to a "hospital" bed with some crazed mad man standing over me with his tray full of shiny pointy things. I know I'm going to die soon. What I don't know is how long it's going to take – and how much it's going to hurt.
As if in answer to my question, I feel something new. Something alien. Burning. Cold. It's so cold, I feel like I'm burning up from the inside out. A thousand knives dig in – myleft armis on fire – I feel myself wanting to scream with it – but I won't scream. I won't give that fucking bastard the satisfaction. Around me, I hear strange noises… then a fog sets in. I fall into it…
Wait. I still have eyes. Just for a few moments longer, I have eyes. It's like time has gotten all screwed up or something…
I'm standing outside the Flying Cow, on my cell phone, yelling some fuckmook for being a complete moron…
The Flying Cow. Where I'm meeting Ajedrez.
Ajedrez – you never saw it coming…? I don't know what she's talking about – I know things are starting to fall apart… but I don't know how much until I feel the sharp prick in the side of my neck… Fuck me! No, I never saw this coming, she was supposed to run away with me. We were going to spend the next few months drinking tequila on the beach and screwing like horny rabbits! How did this happen? I'm the great Machiavellian – how did everything unravel so completely? (I can see the shreds of my scheme literally falling away from me, unraveling as they tumble down into some kind of big black abyss… fucking weird.)
I'm in a room. It's mostly dark. But I can see Barilla – his face is like a mummy's mask. And Ajedrez is standing next to him. She tells me she's his daughter… fuck me but good! Yes, yes, she did fuck me good… real good. Too good…
I'm strapped down – no use struggling – but I warn Barilla, he doesn't want to kill me. That would be crossing a line even he doesn't want to cross. It's horse shit, of course – but maybe he'll believe me… so why the fuck does he seem so glib…?
You've seen too much… and when I see the little silver drill Guevara is holding, the meaning of those words hits home… I never saw it coming… I'm never going to see anything coming again. And for the first time in my life I think I'm honestly, truly afraid… I'm trying like Hell not to let it show – trying to figure some way out of this mess I've made…
See, I wouldn't be afraid if he'd said he was going to kill me – a little pissed off maybe – but not scared. I've never been afraid to die. Death is easy.
But this? This is different… this is… worse… he's going to leave me as a freak… helpless… alone in the dark… oh yeah, and he's going to make sure I'm awake through the entire gruesome procedure…
I feel the sharp prick as the needle goes into my flesh, pumping me full of more drugs – then the drill, coming at my eye – fuck – I hold out as long as I can, but eventually the screaming starts… they can't do this to me… goo is running down my face and my throat aches from the overuse… And the world has gone from red to black...
And I'm all alone.
In the dark.
Rough hands pull me up, push me out the door.
I stumble into the blistering Mexican sun but I can't see. I know how bright it should be – but I can't see any of it.
People walk past – voices chatting, laughing – oblivious – traffic, rubber on cobblestone – I don't know where I am. Panic rises.
I want to wake up now – if this is just some fucked up hallucination brought on by the drugs, I want to wake up now! Please…
But I don't wake up. I can feel the drugs still circulating through my system, making my brain feel like it's stuffed full with cotton. I stumble over the something in the street – I can hear them still laughing, Barillo and his goons… and… Chet? Do I hear Chet and his goons too, jeering at me in the dark? Him and a host of other bullies like him, mother fuckers who got their jollies picking on the new kid – the little kid – the poor kid – the kid with patches on every piece of clothing he owns because all of it comes from the Good Will… The world around me is spinning out of control as I realize just how helpless I really am. I feel my stomach heaving – but I won't let myself be sick. I won't let them see what they've done to me! I will at least maintain control of my own body!
"My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. I work for the Central Intelligence Agency," I tell myself, as if someone needs to reassure me of my own identity... I'm Sheldon Jeffery, Fucking, Sands! "I throw shapes. I set them up. I watch them fall." I'm in charge of my own destiny and the lives of the mother fuckers around me. I am the grand puppet master… "I am living la vida loca."
And I'm stumbling through the dusty Mexican street with the sun beating down hard, but unable to penetrate the endless night that's enveloped me… no, no, no this can't be right.
This already happened – it happened was hours ago.
I remember stumbling through the street.
I remember the kid.
And the guy following me.
And being shot.
I remember arguing with a taxi driver.
And a phone that doesn't work.
I remember bullets flying, mostly through me. I remember killing that bitch – yes, that's a good memory. I savour it for just a moment more before trying to remember what else has happened.
Oh please just let me wake up…
The kid.
He said he'd help me.
Take me some place where I could rest.
Only he didn't. He brought me here – wherever the fuck here is. All I can see is nothing.
All I know is that I've been set up. Again.
My breath is ragged.
My limbs are heavy.
My head doesn't hurt yet, but I know it's going to. And it's not the prospect of the inevitable pain that scares me (even if I think maybe it should.) What scares me is the dark.
I'm scared out my mind because I know I'll never see again – I know this isn't some fucked up dream. I'm blind. Blind equals helpless.
And on top of all that, I let myself get screwed up the ass by a ten year old Mexican kid. I wonder what the fuck he's getting out of this… hope it's something good.
Living la vida loca… I hate the song...
I lie still, trying to get my bearings. It's not easy when the room won't stop spinning – but – vanilla candles. And cinnamon. So those were real? And why do I smell – oranges? Oranges and something floral – musky. What is that?
And I guess I make enough of a sound that my captor realizes I'm finally back amongst the living… at least for now.
"Easy there, Cowboy," an angel's sweet, sweet voice cuts through the black haze of fire and ice and lead and pain. My stomach starts to heave-ho again and acid rises up to burn the back of my throat. I gag – and hate myself for it – it betrays weakness – I'm not a weak man!
"None of that," the angel tells me sternly. "There's nothing left to come up anyway."
"How the fuck would you know?" I mutter back at her – coming to another second sobering realization. My throat is raw. Achingly, agonizingly raw. That means I must've been screaming for real, not just in the nightmare. I try to ignore my utter helplessness for the moment and concentrate on getting some kind of handle on the situation. I'm lying down (I have to work very hard to ignore the memory of the last time I woke up like this...) The surface beneath me is cool but not cold – hard – not metal – there's a sheet (a pretty thin one, I'd bet) between me and it, but I'm pretty sure it's not metal. Wood? A table? I listen – but it's hard to hear anything over the beat of my own heart at the moment. It's thumping loudly with real fear – fear I'm trying very hard not to acknowledge.
I take another breath and force myself to get a grip.
I can feel some sort of tight binding on my upper left arm and around each thigh – but I don't seem to be tied down… odd.
Slowly, I reach up to my face – and I'm surprised to find the dark glasses still in place. The gloves have come off my hands – I realize that I'm shirtless – but she's left the glasses on. "Where am I?" I'm pleased that I manage to sound calmer than I feel.
"Relax, Cowboy," she says. "You passed out – probably from blood loss. How do you feel?"
"How the fuck should I feel?"
"Like you've been shot – amongst other things." Her tone is clinical. Cold. Calculated.
I swallow hard. "How long was I out?" I wonder if she'll even give me an honest answer – it's not like I have any way of knowing.
"Not long. Maybe twenty minutes."
Fuck. It felt like I was stuck in Nightmareville forever… maybe I was. "Who are you?"
"La Doctora," she answers in an odd tone.
And I wonder fleetingly if like El, she just goes by "The". Christ – what is it with these Mexicans? But – wait – kid said she was a tourist… kid said a lot of things. I can't trust any of it. I can't trust anyone that I can't look in the eye – and I can't look anybody in the eye any more. Shit. I do not like this helpless thing one bit.
I give myself a good mental shake – I wasn't so helpless that I couldn't kill what – three men? And that fucking bitch… Sheldon Jeffrey Sands will not be taken down so easily, I tell myself firmly. I'm not quite sure I believe my own bullshit - but it sounds good at least.
Deciding to test the notion that I'm not tied down, I give sitting up a try – only to find her hand on my chest. I tense at her touch – it's involuntary – there's something about uninvited human contact just now… I swallow hard, feeling the rawness of my throat all over again. No – I will not give into the fear creeping over me. I am Sheldon Jeffrey Fucking Sands. I'm not afraid of anything – not even the dark.
"Slow down, Cowboy – I don't want you passing out on me again."
"What makes you so fucking special, Toots?" I growl, grabbing her wrist with more strength – and speed – than even I think I should have at my disposal at the moment. Further, I realize I don't hurt quite as much as I did before I passed out – if I passed out, I might have been drugged again. Well, no fuck, fuckmook, I tell myself – my undoing was trusting someone, anyone – even a fucking little kid. No one is innocent. No one is trustworthy – everyone will betray you, given sufficient time and motive. Why the hell don't I know that by now? "Where I am?" I repeat the first question more forcefully, twisting her wrist hard as I speak – I'm satisfied by the sound she makes. It isn't quite a whimper – but I've hurt her. That knowledge brings back some of my sense of control. Blind and shot, I can still hurt someone. Damn, what I wouldn't do for a cigarette right about now.
(The back of my brain is nagging at me again – I tell it to shut the fuck up. Just because there aren't any men with guns swarming all over me doesn't mean I'm out of danger, yet.)
The woman with the angelic voice is very still. "If you do that again, I might just let you bleed to death on principle." The anger in her voice is unmistakable.
"Tsk, tsk, Darlin'," I cluck my tongue at her. "You'll ruin your good reputation as a doctor if you do that."
She doesn't try to pull away – but – she seems to be considering something. Probably trying to decide just how dangerous I really am – I wonder what the kid told her about me.
I have to make a couple of decisions – decisions I'd usually make staring someone square in the eye, getting a beat on what they're really feeling – but I don't have that luxury. So I listen to her breathing – it's a little unsteady – anger or fear? I can't decide. That knowledge would help – but her tone says angry, so I guess I'll just have to go with that. "If you don't help me, I'll break more than your wrist, Darlin'," I say with sweet malice.
I can almost hear her jaw clench tight, "Then just who in Hades will patch you up?"
Fear. There is a definitely a frightened edge to her voice – it sends shivers up my spine. The good kind of shivers. I haven't lost it – I can still intimidate someone. "Guess that puts us at an impasse, doesn't it?" I tighten my grip just a little and feel her tense up. Damn, this is good.
"What do you want from me? I've been trying to help you." Her fear is escalating.
That makes me smile. "I want to know who you are and where I am," as I speak, I pull her closer still. We're nose to fucking nose.
"I'm a nurse, ok? I moved here about a year ago – the locals call me – La Doctora."
I hear the hesitation in her voice and wonder what she's leaving out…
"Who do you work for?"
"I don't work for anyone. Now do you want my help or don't you?"
I consider my options. I don't like any of them. I need medical attention. A hospital is out of the question… but I don't like having to trust someone – every time I do, I wind up even deeper in shit. "The kid - where is he?" I ask - don't ask me why I care - I don't know myself. Maybe a part of me just needs to believe he didn't betray me. Maybe a part of me is just desperate enough to trust a complete stranger.
"I sent Heramano home," she tells me. "Now, are you going to let me look at those holes in your –"
I falter. Fuck! She twists free instantly. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I can imagine her standing there, rubbing her sore wrist, probably looking all pleased with herself – just like a God damned woman. Her voice, however, is still cold with frightened rage. "Arms and legs," she finishes her sentence. "Or I am really going to have to let you bleed to death in my kitchen?"
She knows. I know she knows. I don't know if she took a sneak peek while I was out – or if it's just that obvious. But she knows. And why the fuck do I care…? Maybe because having someone else know makes it more real… more inescapable. More – permanent.
"I really hadn't planned on bleeding to death anywhere today," I tell her. I sound defeated even to myself. I'm blind. I'm more than blind. Maybe I should just have her let me bleed to death… no. I'm not a quitter. I've never been a quitter. I become aware of her voice...
"I've already given you something for pain – in case you hadn't noticed – and something for infection. I hope you're not allergic to penicillin."
Given her tone, I'm not so sure she really doesn't hope I'll have some kind of nasty reaction – but it isn't the penicillin that worries me. "For pain – what did you give me?"
"OxyContin – it's –"
"I know what the fuck it is," and now I know why I feel so woozy. She might as well have given me heroine. "Any chance you've got a smoke on you?"
I can almost feel her giving me a look. Then I hear movement – and feel a cigarette touch my lips. "You really are an angel," I mutter – I can feel the warmth of the flame as she holds a lighter (because I haven't heard or smelled a striking match) to the end of the cigarette – and I realize how fucking hard it is to get a cigarette lit when you can't see… fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I don't like this. I don't like any of this. I am really fucking ready to wake up – now would be just about dandy… but I know it's not going to work. I'm not going to wake up. I am awake. This is my life. This – darkness. This – helplessness – this emptiness. This is all she wrote; the Fat Lady has sung her song and the curtain is coming down…
"I don't think anyone has ever called me an angel before," replies 'La Doctora', withdrawing the flame. I think I can hear a smile in her voice – but it's too hard to tell in the dark.
I inhale deeply, and let the nicotine work its magic on my jangled nerves while "La" (when in Rome, right?) putters around a little. I strain – but I can't figure out what she's doing. "So who are you?" I manage to make my tone almost conversational – because what the Hell is a nurse doing with OxyContin in her bag? And what's an American nurse doing living in this Hell Hole, anyway? Even with my system pumped full of drugs, I realize there's a lot that isn't adding up.
"Just someone who gives a shit," she replies – then I think I hear her voice falter – but she's speaking again. "Sit back and try to relax," she tells me. There's something in her voice… I wish I could see her. I wish I could see... not now, I tell myself. I manage to just go about the business of smoking while she does her thing.
It's not that I trust her – it just goes back to what choice do I really have? Either let her tend the wounds or I bleed to death in her kitchen. All things considered, I guess I'll let her tend the wounds and hope for the best. After all, when I grabbed her, a bunch of goons with guns didn't come storming in… so maybe she really is just some American who came down here to ease her guilty conscience for living the good life while the rest of the world suffered, or some kind of shit like that. Probably some trust fund brat – maybe rebelling against Daddy and his evil ways – old man might run an oil company – or McDonald's. I take a nice long drag of the cigarette trying to identify the brand. I've smoked just about every kind of cigarette ever made… she tells me that I need to ash and holds up something – a can, I think – to ash into. "Gracias," I say in my worst American accent – and she chuckles. Maybe I shouldn't make her do that when she's this close to me holding God knows what… but she hasn't hurt me yet.
"Holler if this is too hot," She says, just before rinsing me down with very warm water – and the most gentle hands imaginable.
The warmth of the water seems to remind me that I'm alive – that I still breathe. That it isn't always going to hurt this bad… "God in Heaven," I murmur. Nothing has felt so good in a fuck of a long time.
"Not exactly," she says, "But if you'd like to promote me from angel to All Might, I guess I'll the job – hopefully it comes with a raise – I could use a new car."
I know she's smiling.
"You have the strangest bedside manner I've ever encountered."
"And I have the funny feeling you've encountered plenty," is her quick retort.
"Let's just say I fall down a lot and leave it at that."
I hear her laugh again – but it isn't half as jovial. I file that away for future reference – although with any luck I'll be outa here long before I have the chance to need it; I locate the ash-can easily enough and flick.
It's hard to imagine that less than fifteen minutes ago, I was threatening this woman with bodily harm – and I'd say that maybe she didn't believe me, but I know the sound of fear in a woman's voice. She was honestly terrified of me – she believed I'd go through with hurting her. Good thing she believed it – I would have. I still could. I just don't happen to want to…
"This is going to sting," she says, breaking me from my thoughts.
"What's going to sting?"
"It's just iodine." I get the feeling that if I could see, I'd know that… but I'm convinced she already knows I can't see a damn thing.
I feel her applying the stuff to my side – and hiss as it goes to work killing germs.
"It looks like you're lucky," she tells me, "Bullet went straight through – and doesn't seem to have punctured anything major – you're just going to need a couple of stitches."
I snort. Yeah. Lucky. Sure, lady.
"You want another?"
"Huh?"
"Cig – that one's almost out."
"Oh – yeah – thanks." I think that maybe the last – twelve, fifteen hours, maybe – are finally catching up to me. My mind is actually starting to slow down… a part of me just wants to sleep – and hopefully never wake up again. Or wake up on a beech somewhere with some pretty little piece of ass and a great big bottle of tequila… but that's not going to happen.
I'm not going to let my guard down, either, not until I figure out who my angel really is – other than someone who gives a shit. Enough of a shit that this time the cigarette she slips between my lips is already lit – I mutter my gratitude.
"I'm going to stitch this, then bandage it," she warns. "This will probably hurt."
"No sweat, Sugar Butt" is my only reply, "Stitch away."
I can't tell if her sigh is exasperation – or amusement. Hell, I might just be the most interesting patient to grace her table all year. She gives me just enough warning so that I manage to extract the cigarette from my lips before she starts sewing my flesh – gritting your teeth is a good way to ruin a good fag.
Her fingers are nimble – quick. Gentle. "All done," she announces after a few moments. She lets me take another drag before getting to the exit hole. "You must have really pissed someone off," she muses aloud as she cleans, then stitches it – two quick stitches and she's done. I wonder if she's fishing – or just chatty. If I could look into her eyes, I could know for sure…
"Yeah, I'm pretty good at pissing people off," it's the obvious answer.
"I never would have guessed," her tone is entirely sarcastic.
I'm not getting any kind of duplicity vibe from her… 'course, I didn't get that vibe from Ajedrez either. Look how good the old Spidy senses let me right the fuck down on that one… I used to really pride myself in my ability to read people.
I almost jump when I feel a pair of strong arms encircling me – but it's just my angel wrapping me with gauze. "Easy on the goods there, Darlin'," I try to hide my reaction behind a wise ass comment. I feel more than hear the rumble of laughter deep within in her throat. Her arms are bare – her flesh is warm. Her blouse is made of soft cotton – tiny buttons brush up against my skin. And I realize that she's the source of that orangey-floral-musky scent. It must be her cologne. I've never known anyone who wore anything quite so – exotic. And as she presses up against me, I get the feeling that she's thin – not skinny – but not the curvy type I usually fall into bed with – although her tits are nice…
"Don't go getting any bright ideas, there Cowboy," she tells me softly. I'm pretty sure she's smiling – but damn, even doped up on "hillbilly heroine," I shouldn't be that transparent. Christ, I really am loosing it.
Then she straightens and is all business again: "I already took a bullet out of your arm – did it while you were out – it was pretty close to the surface," she tells me. "But now I need to you to take off your pants."
"Jeez – usually I make a pretty girl wait until at least the second date before letting her get into my trousers," I quip back. Of course, it's a total lie… and why do I get the feeling she knows that too…
"Well, Cowboy, then I guess it's a good thing for you I'm not your prom date."
"Guess so," I reply and start by taking off my belt.
"Nice belt buckle," she snorts as I hand it to her.
I have to think a moment – oh yeah, "Mary Jane," I smirk. My 'buddies' down at the DEA hate this one. I hear her put it down behind her – the metal of the belt buckle contacts with what sounds like ceramic – probably tile. Not unusual in someone's kitchen… come to think of it, I have only her word to go on… I try to hid my displeasure at that revelation. I'm having too damned many disconcerting revelations today. As I fumble with the zipper, I feel her hands on mine. "What's the rush, Sugar butt?" I'm doing it again, covering up my lack of paying attention with wit and charm. Or at least a smart assed comment.
She doesn't answer. Maybe I've finally pissed her off.
"What's your name, anyway – or are you like that mariachi guy, just a title without a name?" I ask. I never was good at leaving well enough alone.
I'm pretty sure she smiles, "No, I'm not like El."
I'm surprised and I don't bother to try hiding it, "You know him? Most people I've run into say he's just a myth, a folk hero."
"He's a man."
"Uh-huh."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Cowboy. I said I knew him, not that I knew him," she says it in Spanish. In Spanish, there's to know and to know. Apparently, she only knows El, rather than knowing him. Or so she claims…
But what I'd like to know is how she knew what I was thinking. "Why do you keep calling me Cowboy?" I ask instead (in English) – it might make some difference to my future if she knows El – or knows him – but I'm not willing to admit to how well I know him – at least not yet. This of course, is assuming he's survived. But somehow I find that quite probable. And I'm aware that she seems to be deciding how to answer my question. Interesting.
"It just seems to fit," she begins a little awkwardly. "You did pay attention to what you were wearing when you left the house this morning, right?"
I'm silent for a moment. Yeah. I was going to meet a woman… I thought that woman would appreciate the black duds…
"Sorry."
I just shake my head. Mostly it's just my apparent transparency that's bugging the shit out of me. Nobody reads me like a book. Nobody… "So – how about it – you got a name – or do I really have to call you 'La'?"
She almost laughs, "It's Beth. What about you?"
"Sands."
"First, last or middle?"
"Last."
I realize she's pulling my boots off – I start to shimmy out of the pants – but I can't do it sitting down. She helps me up – I have to steady myself with one hand on the table – the other hand lands on her shoulder – she peels the tight, blood soaked pants from my legs – because standing on my own doesn't seem to be an option... "You know, under more amenable circumstances," I begin… her head is right where it should be… course I think I'm in way too much pain to really enjoy it… especially when she makes a noise I really don't like the sound of. "Usually women like what they see when I take my pants off," I tell her – I know I'm not doing a very good job of hiding some good old-fashioned fear behind that last lascivious comment. She's awfully close to ol' Johnny there – and I'd hate to think he was a casualty of this afternoon's clusterfuck.
"Right side looks good – it went clean through. Left side wasn't so lucky. Bullet's lodged in your leg," she tells me simply as I find my way back onto the table.
Sitting is considerably easier than standing right now.
"So take it out. I have faith in you." Right. I don't have faith in anything any more – except maybe one more screw-over.
"I was able to get the bullet out of your arm because it was close to the surface. The one lodged in your thigh is not only deep it's – "
"Major blood vessels," I finish for her. Yeah, I've had basic anatomy. Things like that come in real handy from time to time…
"There's a small hospital not too far from here –"
"No."
"Listen to me, Cowboy – I'm a nurse, not a surgeon. I can patch the rest of you up – I can even stay with you while they operate –"
"No. No doctors. No hospitals. No room for negotiation," I tell her in a tone that I'm pretty sure leaves no room to argue.
"If that stays in there – you could loose the leg," her tone seems to imply she thinks I'm crazy.
Well take a number and stand in line, Toots – most people think I fell off my rocker years ago. "Give me a knife – I'll dig it out myself if I have to." Like I just said…
"Christ on a crutch," she swears. "Look –" she stops. Is she aware of the bitter irony of that word…? I hear a heavy sigh. Yep. She is.
I hear her open her mouth – and I just shake my head. I don't care if it was going to be an apology or more arguments about physicians. And I surprise myself (again) by what I say next. "I've already seen one doctor today – savvy?" for emphasis I tap the arm of the dark glasses lightly with my fingertip.
There is a very, very long silence. Finally, she speaks, resignation weighing down her otherwise beautifully angelic voice: "Ok, Cowboy. I managed to get through three years of medical school before dropping out. I can't promise you won't have a hell of a scar – but I can probably get it out without lopping your leg off in the process – but it's gonna hurt like a son of a bitch."
"Lady – compared with the rest of my day, having you dig around in my leg will be a walk in the park."
I hear her pause and wonder what now…
"I'd like to take off the glasses before I get to work on that leg."
I start to protest, but before I can say much, my stomach does its thing again; strong female hands catch me before I fall over. "Nice catch," I mutter, as bile burns the back of my throat. If this keeps up for much longer, I'm going to be in real trouble… as if I'm not already.
"Let's get a couple of things straight right here and now – numero uno is that I do not allow my patients to puke on my shoes. Got it?"
"Got it, Chief," I manage to say in a light tone. I'm almost beginning to enjoy her bedside manner – and I find myself wondering what she looks like, other than thin… God, Jeff, you really are a fucking letch.
"Good. Now – the glasses."
I raise my hand, even though she hasn't actually made a move towards me – that I'm aware of. I'm pretty sure she realizes that there's more to it than just the obvious – because yeah, even I'm willing to admit that psychologically I'm not really ready to think about it for more than thirty seconds at a time.
"You've obviously suffered some kind of facial injury –"
"And you've gotta have a pretty good idea what it is," I tell her; damn, my voice sounds cold even to me.
"And you know I need to see the extent of the damage."
"No."
"If there's any chance of even partial recovery –"
"There isn't - and I know you already know that." Fuck. Admitting it out loud – hurts. I get the feeling she's acutely aware of just how much it hurts. A gentle hand touches my arm. "If I wanted sympathy, Sugar Butt, I'd look between shit and syphilis in the dictionary," I growl at her – Christ. Right. Sure I would. As soon as I learn fucking Braille! Her hand is still on my arm – so I try to shrug it off – but she won't budge. I've decided I really don't like being touched right now. "I'm warning you –" I begin in a tone carefully calculated to scare the crap right out of her...
"Stop being an ass," she snaps at me in the same tone I imagine one might use on an errant child. "You weren't getting sympathy from me before – and you sure as Hades aren't going to get it now, Cowboy, so don't get your knickers in a bunch."
Fuck. What is it about this woman… I swear, if I didn't need her help, I'd reach right out and stranger her where she stands! "Just point me in the direction of your bathroom – I can take care of my own God damned face."
"Will you at least give me some clue about the extent of the damage?" She's being clinical again. Efficient. But I'm pretty sure I can still hear something – soft – in her voice. The sound of someone who gives a shit…
No one has ever given a shit about me before… ok, so that's notreally true. Plenty of people have tried. But I always did a real good job of driving them off. It's no accident I'm an asshole, you know. "What difference does it make how badthe -the damage -really is?"
"I don't think I need to tell you how sensitive that area is – and the kinds of problems you could have if the infection is serious enough – because I don't get the impression your 'doctor' used sterile equipment." Her voice turns icy when she says 'doctor' – she's understood my meaning exactly.
This time I intended for her too get it – but it's still disconcerting how easily this woman reads me… "I doubt it," I answer her in tone that matches hers. Truth is I hadn't thought about it before now – but an infection that close to the brain… Christ. Talk about your fucking sobering thoughts.
"So – give me some kind of idea what I'm up against."
"A Cowboy with a stubborn streak the size of the Grand Canyon," I quip back at her. Yeah, yeah, yeah, self defense mechanism. Or maybe a self-destruct mechanism by this point.
She's quiet for several long, cold moments. "Ok, have it your way. I have iodine, hydrogen peroxide and isopropyl alcohol. I don't recommend the latter."
"I'm a sadist, not a masochist, Sugar Butt," I tell her. "I'll take the hydrogen peroxide – and something for pain, something I can apply topically." Because this is gonna hurt…
"To your eyes?" she sounds surprised.
She didn't know… she really didn't look… I'm caught completely off guard by this. "There uh – isn't that much left to worry about," I don't quite turn my head away from her as I say it, swallowing hard to drive the gorge back down into my stomach. Even blind, I don't want to face what I'm sure she must be thinking.
There's more silence. I wonder if she's grateful that I have a stubborn streak the size of the Grand Canyon – grateful she won't really have to come face to face with lies behind these dark glasses of mine… I wonder if her mind is conjuring up images of what I must look like… I know mine is.
"I – have a limited supply of the OxyContin – will Codine do?" Her voice is quite, her tone neutral – hard to interpret.
"Yeah," I answer in an equally quiet, neutral tone. From now on Beth, whoever she really is, is going to look at me and see not just a crip, but a freak. Isn't that what Barillo wanted? Why he let me live. And then – her hand on my arm again. I try to shrug her off – but she's as fucking stubborn as before. "Just – don't, ok?" I ask. I don't want her pity. I don't want anything… at least not anything I have any chance of ever getting.
I want my sight back.
I want my eyes back.
I want my life back.
And suddenly I realize just how close she is to me – her cologne covers me with its exotic sweetness. "Don't," I repeat the word – it sounds like a plea… what's happening to me? God damn it, Sands, you're falling apart… Desperately, I mentally cling to the last vestiges of sanity – something every shrink I've ever been to has claimed was in scant supply to begin with… it's like watching a glass fall from a countertop and knowing you'll never get to it before it hits the floors and shatters… And she's still there. I don't even have the strength to reach out and strangle her…
"Give me a couple of minutes to get this leg cleaned up a little – then we'll get you to the bathroom," her voice doesn't have a single shred of pity – not an ounce of sympathy. It's not clinically cold either – not at all detached or even a little bit neutral... but I don't want to vomit at the sound of it.
"Thanks," I say. It may be the single most sincere word I've uttered in fifteen years…