MIND CONTROL
CHAPTER TWO
Starsky wandered around the cottage, assessing the pieces of his shattered life. His life as he knew it had been wiped away in a matter of minutes in the Police Garage when he faced a hail of bullets from his would be assassins. He didn't remember the actual shooting and probably never would. The doctors kept telling him that it was best if he didn't. He only had vague memories of the first couple of weeks in the hospital, memories of waking up to a world of pain that took his breath away. His clearest memory of that time was Hutch being at his side constantly, encouraging him, soothing away the pain and keeping the nightmares from sending him over the edge.
In the beginning, he couldn't even move without feeling like his body was being ripped apart from the inside out. He spent most of his time sleeping, heavily drugged to help his shattered body fight the pain and start to heal. Tubes, wires and machines monitored his vital signs, emptied his bladder, provided him with food, kept his body hydrated, and even took over the task of breathing for him. All he could do was lie in his hospital bed and stare at the ceiling, his mind trapped in a helpless body.
During the two months he spent in the hospital after the shooting, he battled two severe infections, three bouts with pneumonia, blood poisoning, three additional surgeries, bed sores, and constricted muscles. He lost almost thirty pounds and most of his muscle tone. The powerful medications he was on made him severely nauseated and he began suffering from migraines.
It was almost a month before the doctors decided that he was strong enough to be moved out of the Intensive Care Unit and into a private room with fewer restrictions. He was finally able to get rid of some of the machinery and tubes that had been keeping him confined to his bed but his body was so messed up that he had to relearn how to recognize the subtle signals that he needed to go to the bathroom. He had taken his first faltering steps six weeks after the shooting. He has barely managed to take three steps before collapsing in Hutch's supportive arms. He had suffered from severe vertigo whenever he tried to stand upright, his healing muscles loudly protesting any change in his position.
He was restricted to a soft, bland diet. His damaged digestive system often rejecting even the mild foods he was allowed to eat. His appetite became almost non-existent. The only thing he seemed to be able to keep down consistently was ice cream and he soon became tired of even that. As a result, he'd lost almost ten more pounds until he began to look like a concentration camp survivor. The doctors finally inserted a tube directly into his stomach to supply his malnourished body with the necessary vitamins and nutrients to help him get stronger.
Two weeks before he finally got out of the hospital, the physical therapist started working with his constricted muscles to help him regain more mobility and flexibility. At first even the gentle stretching and range of motion exercises were enough to reduce him to tears. He was still in constant, unrelenting pain and it was beginning to take a toil on both his emotions and his stamina.
Finally his recovering body reached the point that the doctors decided he no longer needed constant medical supervision. Arrangements were made for him to go home with Hutch acting as his primary caregiver. He was still weak and could barely do anything for himself with a long list of restrictions on what he could and couldn't do for the next few months. His immediate future was still filled with doctor's appointments, physical therapy sessions and medical tests.
At first, Hutch had to help him do everything. The big blond took him to the bathroom, wiped his ass, and gave him a shower. He dressed him and undressed him, chauffeured him to his numerous appointments, cooked his meals and fed him. He changed the dressings on the brunet's various wounds and gave Starsky full body massages to relax him. He slept in the same bed with Starsky at night, holding him close to keep the nightmares away, or just cuddling him when the emotions overwhelmed the brunet and all he could do was cry. Hutch cleaned up his puke, his piss and his shit without ever complaining even once.
It took months of hard work but slowly Starsky began to get stronger. The external injuries healed, leaving Starsky's torso covered with horrendous scars, a permanent reminder of how close he had come to death. Hutch finally told Starsky that his heart had stopped three times in the forty-eight hours immediately following the shooting. The last time, in the I.C.U., it had taken the doctors almost four minutes to get it started again. Starsky's severely traumatized body had almost given up but the resilient brunet had refused to let go.
Now, almost a year later, it seemed as if his efforts and hard work to get back to a normal level of functioning had all been in vain. Starsky knew he wasn't fully recovered yet. The doctors had warned him that it would take up to eighteen months for the damaged muscles and shredded tissue to heal completely. He was still fifteen pounds below his usual body weight before the shooting. He had to watch his diet and there were certain foods that he had to avoid, mainly the spicy, exotic foods that he still craved the most. He had learned to live with a certain amount of pain, especially if he moved too quickly or tried to twist his body beyond the limits his healing muscles could tolerate. He also tired more easily than he had in the past. Double shifts for days at a time were out of the question and so were long stakeouts sitting in a cramped car for hours at a time.
Still, he had clung to the hope that eventually he would be able to return to the streets and to the job that he loved. Now the review board had made it painfully clear that was not an option. The bullets that had torn through his body had left permanent damage to his heart and left lung, taking his livelihood away from him along with everything else he had lost. That decision had done the one thing that the shooting had failed to do, it had broken his spirit and his heart.
He went through the motions of his morning routine, taking a shower and shaving, then getting dressed for the day without really paying attention to what he was doing. The man staring back at him from the reflection in the full length mirror hanging on the back of his bedroom door was a stranger to the brunet. Still painfully thin, the jeans that used to hug his body like a second skin hung loose around his hips. His face was gaunt with sharply defined cheekbones. The sapphire eyes looked dull and vacant, the vibrant sparkle gone. Dark circles underneath those eyes bore mute evidence to restless nights without enough sleep. Dark tangled curls hung almost to his shoulders, the hair looking dry and unkempt.
A thin, contemptuous smile tugged at the lips. Why should he care about his appearance? No woman in her right mind would want him anymore and he no longer had a job to go to. Starsky knew that he was feeling sorry for himself but he rationalized that he had earned the right to some self-pity. The only one who had been there to bully him, to cheer him on, to cry with him and to hold him since the shooting had been Hutch. He had struggled and fought with every fiber of his being not just for himself but for the big blond too. And it had all been a waste of time. He was useless, washed up, an empty shell of the man he used to be. A cripple. An invalid. Permanently disabled and not much use to anyone.
Without thinking, Starsky slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it and cutting his knuckles. His left shoulder screamed with pain as barely healed muscles protested his sudden burst of anger. Biting back a groan of pain, the brunet stumbled into the bathroom and ran cold water over his bruised and bleeding knuckles. The wounds to his hand were minor. It was the wound to his psyche that ran deep into his very soul.
He cleaned the cuts and carefully bandaged his hand. He knew Hutch would question him about it when he got home but he didn't care. Striking out at the mirror had at least released some of his pent up anger and frustration.
He shuffled into the living room and slumped down on the sofa. Picking up the remote, he turned on the TV and flipped through the channels disinterestedly. He finally settled on some inane daytime game show, the background noise lulling him into a pleasant stupor. This was all he had to look forward to now so he might as well get used to it. This was his future for the next forty or fifty years. Eating a bullet suddenly took on a certain appeal.