Chapter 2

Click. Swish. The door is closed again. The room is silent. He settles against the pillow once more, wondering how long he has been in this bed. His headache is dissipating somewhat as the medications take effect but lethargy is wrapping its fingers tightly around him. Through the delirium that is settling in as he tumbles toward the abyss, he wonders vaguely why the lights are off. Soon he sleeps.

An hour passes before pain begins to creep into his unconsciousness, tugging at him, dragging him from one dark realm into another. He groans as sleep slips away and he is deposited back into the throbbing darkness of his consciousness. He is disoriented. He repeats the errors of earlier. He touches his eyes gingerly, wondering at first why the lights are off, and then pressing on his eyeballs, willing them to see as he slowly recalls what the doctor told him earlier. What was his name?

His hands flutter out from his side grasping at air. He is parched. His throat is burning. Was it the medication? His left hand gropes at the air until he grazes his knuckles painfully on the edge of the table beside his bed. Where is the water? He needs water. He licks his lips in anticipation, but in a moment his hand knocks into something and he hears the soft plunk of a Styrofoam cup tipping onto the floor and a splash of water as his drink disappears from his reality.

He wonders if he is still in the hospital. He struggles to keep his thoughts ordered as his concussed neurons lick their wounds and hesitate to return to work. He raises a hand to his forehead, noticing the bandages there for the first time. He fingers the gauze gingerly, searching for the source of his darkness. Here. He finds a tender region on his left temple. His fingers flutter over it delicately, but the pain blooms beneath them regardless, splintering into his head like a host of needles. He is so thirsty. How is it this dry in here?

"Hello?" he whispers tentatively, feeling foolish that he doesn't even know if he is alone or accompanied. He half-hopes he is alone, and that no one is there to bear witness to his vulnerability at the moment, but he also craves something for his thirst. The drive to drink something is nearly as great as the drive to run screaming from the hospital. Only he doesn't' really know where the door is. Or the floor for that matter.

He closes his eyes. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. Four-one-thousand. Five-one-thousand. He opens his eyes again, hoping the meditative skills he learned during his martial arts training would some how restore enough calm to allow him some vision. There is nothing.

He closes them again, and keeps them that way.

His head darts up in a moment, however, pain bursting in his head like an over-inflated balloon. The door is opened again. He doesn't know what to do. Does he ask who is there? Does he wait for them to identify themselves? Does the stranger know he cannot see them? Panic rises from his gut and sweat stands out on his brow. He swipes at it with his hand, bumping his elbow painfully on the bed rail as he goes to set his hand back down in his lap.

He waits, breath held unconsciously. He doesn't have the courage to speak at the moment. Who is it? Who are you? Why don't you speak?

Soft footsteps approach him. He doesn't know whether to close his eyes or keep them open. Is this stranger looking at him? His muscles tense painfully. He tries to widen his eyes. Wills them to see. He turns his face toward the sound of movement on his right. The chair is moved close to him. He shrinks involuntarily from the screech of metal legs on linoleum.

Still no one speaks.

"Please," he croaks, "Who's there?"

"Jim." A single syllable. It is enough to send shattered images of the bank rattling through his mind.

He closes his eyes now, wishing he could disappear, just as the rest of the world had disappeared from his view.

"I'm…so…sorry," comes Terry's voice from somewhere near his shoulder. He reflexively bats away the hand he feels settling patronizingly on his shoulder. He doesn't speak. What can he possibly say at this moment? It's alright? I'll be okay? At this point there was insufficient evidence for him to make either claim.

"Jim? I tried…you know I tried, right?"

Jim turns his head away from his partner, not wanting the man to see his face. He couldn't fathom what it must look like. Was it a mess? What did his eyes look like? They feel the same—except that it seems someone has pulled a heavy black curtain over them. He mentally reproaches himself for his vanity. What does it matter how he looks?

He isn't sure exactly why Terry is apologizing. He thinks at first that it is just a sympathetic word for a wounded friend, but now he is beginning to wonder if Terry had done or failed to do something at the bank. He can't quite recall. Too much pain and narcotic floating in his head. He wonders in passing what they gave him. He thinks it might be time for some more.

"Jim?" The voice broaches the darkness again.

"I need to rest, Terry," he whispers.

He hears a sigh and shifting fabric, then the painful grating noise of the metal chair being pushed away from the bedside. Footsteps are moving away from him again.

Swish. Click.