Yes, poor Sands really is in a lot of pain. I'm taking my time with the first few chapters to set up his headspace (I think his psyche is hurting a whole lot more than his body, given the last twelve hours or so). Butit does get better – and then worse – and then better – so hang in there with him – he's got a bit of a roller coaster ahead of him while he learns that it's safe to trust someone.
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Chapter Three:
A Walk in the Park
Neither of us speaks as she cleans up the leg and wraps me in what I can only assume is her bathrobe (it smells like her - it's not terry - but it's soft and warm...) Guess there isn't an El Doctoro in residence… that makes me feel oddly better, although damned if I know why.
"Neither leg is going to take much weight," she tells me.
I bite back the witty comment before it has a chance to escape... sometimes it's better not to completely piss someone off. And I need my angel. Even so, I resent her. I hate having to lean on her – having to depend on anyone for anything – having to trust anyone, even if it's just to get me to the bathroom in one piece. At the same time, I've kissed the ground enough times today that I can swallow what little my pride I have left and let her help me.
Even with Beth's help, walking is a struggle. My legs don't really want to support any weight at all… but that isn't why I'm freaking out. I've been shot before – I know that barring any nasty or unexpected surprises in a few weeks I won't even remember hurting – so it sucks – but I know that flesh heals.
No, I'm freaking because I'm vulnerable – exposed. She could be leading me anywhere – to a firing squad or a gas chamber, for instance. I don't quite believe that – but I acknowledge the possibility.
And even if that doesn't come to pass, in a few weeks, when I've forgotten all about havinga bullet in my leg, I'll still be blind. I'll be blind a few weeks after that – and after that and after that. I'll be blind for the rest of my life. And I am freaking out.
Deciding to focus my mind on something potentially more pleasant than what awaits me at the end of this agonizing walk, I pay close attention to the woman holding me up. Beth is shorter than I thought, coming only up to about my armpits (and I'm not really a tall man, so she can't be much more than five three, five four) and maybe not quite as thin as I'd imagined at first – but still definitely slender. "Your hair is short," I mutter, feeling around her back trying to find some hair. I've always enjoyed the feel of a woman's hair in my hands… let your mind wander where it will, amigo…
"It wasn't always," is her only answer – and I'm not sure what exactly I'm hearing in her voice when she says it – but whatever it is, it vanishes quickly with her next statement. "Count your steps."
"What?"
"From the kitchen to the bath – count your steps."
So much for where my mind wanted to go… but she's right. I have to start thinking like a blind man… I count thirteen steps down a hall that I'm pretty sure is narrow – there isn't much echo – and she's wearing rubber soled shoes – I've had to wait in enough dark rooms to know a thing or two about footsteps. I begin to realize that there are a lot of things I can already do without seeing… I killed four people this very afternoon without being able to see a God damned thing. That really isn't a bad day at all.
But I'm more than just blind. I've been mutilated - mamed. Made into a freak. And I'm about to find out just how bad it really is… and that, ladies and gentlemen, is freaking me right the Hell out. Or had I mentioned that part already...
"Sharp right," her words slice through my thoughts.
Less than two steps into the bathroom I find the sink to my right. It's small, deep – there's an open hole at the bottom – I find the chain and the stopper – my fingers locate the faucet with equal ease.
"Towels are to your right – I'm putting the bandages and peroxide on the counter to your left."
I feel her move behind me to set the supplies in easy reach, and I can't resist the urge to accuse her of copping a feel as she brushes up against my ass. She ignores it. Damn. She really is onto my self defense mechanisms.
"Toilet is just behind you," Beth goes on, "I'll be just outside the door, so of you need anything just holler."
"I'll be fine," I lie. Even if I'm not going to actually see it... I know what's there. What's not there... My stomach is churning violently and I'm almost tempted to ask if she has any antacids… God, why the fuck do I even trust this woman! This is stupid – stupid… I don't quite realize that I'm clutching onto the sink in an effort not to fall over.
"You're sure –"
"Fuck me, yes I'm sure!" I snap – I don't think I mean to – but – damn it, I snap at her anyway. I don't even know what she was going to ask me I was sure about. Fuck.
Beth just sighs. "All right. Just holler if you need me, Cowboy," her voice is warm. She strokes my back gently – then leaves me to face myself. I hear the door click shut behind her - but I know she hasn't gone far.
A part of me wonders what the Hell I did to deserve her kindness – but the larger part of my brain is screaming that I don't need anyone – but I do need someone. I'm going to need someone for the rest of my miserable life… and for a fleeting instant I wonder how pissed she'd be if I just bled to death on her bathroom floor… maybe I could find the tub, make the clean up a little easier… giving up isn't an option. Curling up and dying isn't an option…
I spit out a mouth full of bile and contemplate a drink of water – but even I know better than drinking from the tap in Mexico.
Resigning myself to the task at hand, I feel for the towels. Right where she said they'd be. Likewise with the gauze – sterile packages of it. Good. And the peroxide. Which could be acid for all I know… but she hasn't screwed me over yet. Yet. I'm helpless and at the mercy of a total stranger – I have been forced into a position of having to trust someone – and trust just isn't something I'm good at…
I trusted Ajedrez. Fuck me. I trusted her. I schemed schemes that included her. I liked her. I didn't love her. But I sure as Hell liked her an awful damned lot. Enough to plan some kind of happy ending with her… at least something that would be happy for the next few months, anyway... hey, a romantic, I am not.
"You're stalling," I mutter at myself.
Ok. I can do this.
No I can't.
But if I don't, Beth will.
And I'm not ready to have someone else see me like this.
I'm not ready to face my weaknesses – I'm even less ready to let someone else in on them… as if she doesn't already know… but never mind. I had my eyes drilled out while I was mostly conscious; Ithink that gives me the right to be a little irrational.
Little? Ok, so I'm being a lot irrational.
I reach up for the glasses; my hand freezes midway.
I can't do it. I can't even touch my face.
God damn it, Sands! You're acting like a coward – a fucking yellow-bellied coward! You're so yellow, you're fucking canary yellow!
I want my life back!
God damn you, Barillo why the fuck didn't you just kill me…? You couldn't really have believed that the marines even knew you had me – or if that did, that they'd give a shit about a mother fucker like me!
He had to know I was bluffing.
But to kill me would mean ending my suffering – and you wanted me to suffer, didn't you fuckmook? Yeah – well, I'm not sure which one of us is going to have the last laugh – you're dead. I'm alive. And I'm suffering. "But I hope you're rotting in Hell," I growl. "I hope ol' Hob is having a field day with your sorry ass!"
I realize how close I am to sobbing… only… I'll bet I can't do that either… never mind that the last time I cried was when I was… ten? I want to cry now – and of all the fucking irony, I can't… but the effort is making my …sockets… burn and itch like nobody's business. Maybe it's just the OxyContin wearing off... but fuck, does it hurt. It's like a thousand white-hot needles tapping away at where my eyes used to be… I hang my head - the top of itthumps lightly against the mirror over the sink. If I make too much noise Beth'll come rushing in – but I want to shatter the glass. I want to shatter the glass and use a piece of it to… don't ever give up, the voice in my head isn't my own, but I don't know whose it is. Some Ghost of Christmas' Past maybe… God, I'm loosing it.
"Just get a grip," I tell myself aloud.
One deep breath.
A second one.
Time to face the music Sheldon.
I "look" up at the mirror – or at least I imagine that I can see myself, wrapped up in – what, pink maybe? A pink fluffy bathrobe. That picture's good for at least a two second chuckle.
Ok – enough stalling.
I remove the sunglasses that have been my security blanket for the last few hours. I set them down deliberately – and slowly begin examining the remains of my face with my fingertips.
Beth has cleaned away some of the blood already – but there's fresh ooze coming down. And my stomach heaves, although nothing comes up. Breath Sands, just breathe, I tell myself. I feel for a towel and moisten it with some peroxide from the bottle she's provided. Carefully – fearfully – slowly – I start to clean the fresh blood from my cheeks. Thank God – they're still in tact at least…
In fact, most of my face seems to be right where I left it… God. I'm really loosing it.
I set down the towel and give an experimental touch to the swollen tissue around my left eye socket – acid on a burn… that's the only way to describe the pain. I grit my teeth and try to ignore it. It's nothing. Nothing compared to what's going on inside my head... Barillo has turned me into a skull-faced freak – the kind of man no woman is ever going to look at with anything but horror or pity in her eyes.The thought sickens me to the very core… I don't want pity and I only want fear on my own terms. But I don't get that choice any more. From now on, I'm a blind freak…
Lucky you didn't do anything to warrant death. You've just seen too much… those words echo through my brain... I see Ajedrez's pretty face smilling at me; in an amused tone she reminds me that I didn't even see it coming… she must have been laughing at me the whole time... the whole six months we were fucking, she was laughing at me.
Six months. That's longer than I had with the mother of my God damned child...
"You ok?"
"Just peachy keen, Sugar Butt," I lie again. I'm pretty sure Beth knows I'm lying. But she seems to have the decency to let me pretend. "You got any tequila?"
"Yes – but you're not getting any."
"Even I promise to eat all my brussle sprouts?"
That gets her – she laughs. I mean really, really laughs.
And so do I. It's a real laugh – fuck me, when was the last time I laughed for real? I can't even remember… no, I can. But I choose not to. I'd rather just enjoy this moment of hysteria – because the rational part of my brain knows that I'm laughing because I've finally overloaded. I have used up every single coping mechanism I possess and I'm about to self destruct. I realize I'm sitting on the cold tile floor and I don't even remember how I got there – I hope to Hell her sink is strong because I'm never going to make it back onto my feet without using it to haul my sorry ass up. Blessedly, nothing breaks… I put my butt on the toilet – another small mercy, the lid was down.
Finally, on the other side of the door, Beth recovers herself as well, "Booze thins the blood, Cowboy – you've gotta know that."
"Yeah – I just don't care any more."
"Maybe in a couple of days – but I'll let you have all the cigs you want, in the meantime. Deal? Unless there's someplace you should be –?"
"There is," I say – I should be figuring out how to get out of Mexico and back home. If someone's tried to burn me – I have to figure out what the deal is – who – why – and what's the real extent of the damage to my career. I have to start figuring out what to do next… but my brain just isn't able to go there. I need sleep. I need sleep even more than I need booze – and I really fucking need acigarette right about now. "But no one else will let me smoke while convalescing."
"Glad to know Le Hospital de Beth is the preferred place of convalescence for nicotine addicts."
"You bet your sweet bottom," I tell her. And then I take a deep breath. Time to get this shit over with. I find my feet – find the sink. Find the peroxide... And… like the Nike commercial, I just do it.
I don't stop until the bottle is empty. The peroxcide has no doubt cleaned out any… material… that may have been… clinging… to the socket… after a couple of dry heaves I get myself back under control. Sort of.
I'm shaking. Probably some combination of drugs, exhaustion, and blood loss. And my legs have about had it – I let myself fall back onto the toilet sea. I'll bet I look like Quazi Modo right about now.
I give myself just a few seconds to pull it back together – then reach over and fumble the bandages. It's a little awkward doing this blind and shaking, but I manage to wrap my eyes – just a loose wrap. Just enough to cover them, keep out dust – keep out prying eyes… prying eyes. Fuck what an expression.
I grope for door handle – find it – I know she's standing right there– I feel a warmth radiating off her – smell her perfume. The scent of angels. "Well?"
"Well – I'd say you're right about knowing basic first aid," she says with approval, pressing a lit cigarette into my lips.
"You really are an angel, Sugar Butt," I tell her. Damn, two sincere statements in one day. They're going to drum me right out of the Asshole's Guild if I keep this shit up.
I feel her smile – and with her help, I limp my sorry ass back to the kitchen – and I hardly resent her at all this time around.
"So what next?" I ask, settling myself back onto her kitchen table.
"That leg. And it is going to hurt."
"Like I said before – walk in the park."
Ok, walk in the park is a bit of an exaggeration – she doesn't have much she can use to numb the area she's about to hack in to – but she gives me what she's got. I don't feel anything as she slices… good… then… "This is gonna hurt," she warns just before going in with the tweezers…
Tweezers? It feels more like she's using God damned pliers to poke and prod around with in there; it's all I can do to keep from verbalizing the extreme discomfort I've found myself in. Gripping the edge of her kitchen table, I brace myself as she continues to explore my leg from the inside out. "Any time now, Sweet-cheeks," I mutter.
"Hold tight," she says – it's the only warning I get before she yanks the bullet free – with a good sized chunk of flesh, from the feel of things…
"Holy Christ!"
"Holy Christ, indeed," is her only reply – and I hear the bullet hit the kitchen sink behind her – it makes a distinctive clang. Then she's got something jammed down on the wound – probably to stop the bleeding – I can feel the blood pumping out, flowing fast. She works faster – grabbing my hand, she shoves it down on top of the gauze or towel or whatever it is – I wonder for a moment if I'm really going to get my wish about bleeding to death…
"No such luck," she mutters almost without thinking, it seems…
Now, I know I didn't say that out loud… but there's only so much to think about it – the towel I've got pressed against my leg is already soaked through with blood... bullet must have been lodged up against an artery... probably snagged it on the way out.
"Relax, Cowboy – I was ready for this," she says, "Just hold on – this is really gonna sting."
And my flesh catches fire as the liquid comes into contact with raw meat – my raw meat. I'm ashamed to say I scream something unintelligible, instinctively reaching for the guns that are nowhere to be found – the rational part of my brain shuts down… I'm barely aware of… fire. The prick of a needle… no – no – no – no! … this is really it this time… I'm sure I smell charred flesh… charred human flesh…the darkness is closing in on me…
"Can you hear me?" the question repeats itself, "Come on, Cowboy – I need you to stay with me here."
"Fuck," I mutter – my voice is ragged.
"Maybe later – drink this."
Instinct again – I swat the glass away from my lips – I hear it shatter – the sound sends shivers down my spine – the bad kind of shivers. Like a glass falling from a countertop and you know you'll never get to it before it hits the floor and shatters…
I wake up lying flat on my back, bound – Ajedrez is standing over me… behind her the Mummy – the new Barillo, she says… I've been tortured before… but Barillo doesn't want information… he just wants my eyes…
I swallow hard trying to reorient myself to the room – it's dark. It's dark.
Dark.
Barillo is dead.
Ajedrez is dead.
I'm alive. I'm alive.
"Come on, Cowboy," the voice says again. I know that voice.
There's a hand on my shoulder – I smell familiar orangey-floral-musky perfume.The scent of angels… not that I'll ever see heaven… of course, I'll never see anything… because it's going to be dark for the rest of my life… but the fog is lifting...
"My leg?" I manage to ask. I'm more than a little afraid…
"I don't think I'm going to win surgeon of the year – but you'll live," she tells me, as she eases me into a sitting position.
"What happened?"
"Exactly what I was afraid was going to. I had to cauterize –"
I hold my hand up for her to stop. That explains the smell. That explains the burning. I think I can breathe again. She could be lying – but – there's some part of me that honestly believes her - because even assholes need to believe in something.
My hands reach out for her – I don't know why – I just – I need to feel something solid. Something real. I can't look into her eyes or read her body language – but maybe if I touch her, I can convince myself that she's really the angel she seems to be. I'm almost desperate to believe in something other than my own cynicism right now.
Her hands capture mine – her grip is strong. Warm. Real.
"Would you like that glass of water now?" She asks.
"Yeah – sure. Thanks."
"De nada," I can hear her smile. And the strangest thing – she never lets go of me – one handed, I hear her open the fridge – get out a bottle of water – open it – pour… hand it to me.
I'm still shaking – she has to help me get the glass to my lips – she has to hold it steady while I gulp down the liquid it contains – and it could be anything… but it tastes like water. The coolness of it feels good on my throat.
"Take it easy, Cowboy – I don't want you hurling – little sips," she instructs.
"Yes, Ma'am," I reply obediently. I really don't do well with authority figures… I hear her snicker. I smile back at her, just a little. I'm such an idiot. She could be poisoning me right now…
"When was the last time you ate?"
"Um – lunch. On the first – yesterday."
"Christ on a crutch," she swears again.
"I've never heard that one," I tell her – it's with reluctance that I let her pull away – not that I'd have the strength to onto hold her. I barely have the strength to onto hold myself.
"Hmm – oh – just something I read in a book," her voice is further away – she's on the other side of the room. I listen anxiously – she opens a cupboard – and another one – I hear a glass plate clink against the ceramic tile of the counter. Paper rustles. She puts something on the plate – puts something back in the cupboard.
"Here – it's not much – but I think you should take it easy," she lifts my hands and places into them a small, glass plate.
Shaky fingers feel for the objects it holds. Soda crackers. I almost smile. "Got any peanut butter?"
"Let's see if you can keep those down first," she tells me.
I listen to her wash her hands while I munch on the dry crackers and sip at the water. I'm shaking less. Could she really be just what she says she is? Only – she hasn't really told me much about herself… just that she's a nurse. That she gives a shit. That she made it through three years of medical school. "Where'd you go to school?"
"Does that brain of yours ever slow down?" she asks – she's come to stand near me again. Her cologne washes over me.
"Not really." I put the plate down – I'm sure if I hand it to her, she'll only have to wash her hands again.
"Colombia," she answers my question.
"New York?"
"Hmm," is all she really says. "Ready?" she asks, touching my other leg gently.
Still one more wound to go... "Are you sure we can't renegotiate that tequila?"
"I am entirely positive. But you can have a cig after I get this done."
"You're one tough negotiator."
She chuckles… After she's done cleaning and bandaging the other leg (it really wasn't so bad), I'm almost positive I hear her light up two cigarettes. Yeah, if I had to put up with me for an hour or two (how long has it been, I wonder), I'd need a smoke too… maybe that's why I can't seem to go more than half an hour without craving nicotine...
After I finish my smoke, she helps me down, and I count twenty eight unsteady steps to the bedroom – and I don't know if the exhaustion is physical, mental or emotional, but I know that I'm asleep by the time my head hits the pillow…
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brief note: I'm not a nurse - and given the courseness of this, I wasn't going to runit by my mother in law who is... my knowledge of cauterizing wounds comes from Robert Adams Horseclans books... so in other words, if I have truly made a mockery of medical science, I apologize...