Chapter 11

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Martin stared up at the ceiling tiles, feeling achy and sore. After his parents told him what had happened, the doctor asked his parents to leave for awhile so they could run some tests as well as remove some of the tubes and equipment that had sustained Martin while he was in a coma.

If he never heard the word 'catheter' again it still would be too soon.

Dr. McConnell insisted that he needed to get some rest but sleep was the last thing Martin wanted to do. He didn't want to close his eyes for fear of missing anything else.

Knowing that he had no intention of sleeping, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The doctor's had warned him not to attempt anything as strenuous as walking without assistance because while his physical therapist exercised him everyday, his legs were no longer accustomed to supporting his weight. However, the need for confirmation was too strong and he had to go see for himself.

So on unsteady legs, grasping chairs, tables and walls for support, Martin slowly made his way to the bathroom. When he arrived at the doorway, he flipped the switch and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights.

Martin stood in front of the full length mirror studying the man reflected back. He stripped off his hospital gown and examined his nude form, not recognizing the changes to his own body. He was thinner but puffy; almost all of his muscle definition was gone. His skin was pale and his face hollow. He stared into the eyes of his mirror image and wondered: who is this man?

He could hear his parent's voices echoing in his head.

"Martin, you were shot…."

Martin's gaze moved to his right shoulder. There was a small pucker scar. He traced it with his fingers, the skin soft and smooth.

"Martin, you were shot……three times"

He moved his hand to his chest where there was a much larger scar accompanied by several smaller ones. They were an angry shade of pink and when he ran his fingers over them they felt like a topographic map; marking a journey he doesn't remember ever having taken.

He lifted his hand and ran it along the side of his head. He pushed the hair aside with his fingers and saw a small jagged scar just a half-inch above his ear. It had obviously happened long enough ago for his hair to grow back concealing any trace of its existence. If no one had told him it was there he might never have noticed it.

"….in a coma for two months…."

Martin broke the numbers down in his head.

2 months. May had faded into June which rolled into July. He had missed his birthday. He was asleep for two months and woke up another year older.

8 weeks. His injuries had all healed leaving only scar tissue behind. They were the only evidence he had of what happened, forever etched on his skin, but he had no memory of how they got there.

56 days. His mother told him that they had moved him from New York two days after the shooting. One day he was driving around the city and fifty-six days later he was in a hospital in Georgetown. The time between lost to him forever.

1,344 hours. Statistics say that the average person requires eight hours of sleep a night. By his calculations he had slept enough for 168 days and yet he had never felt more tired.

80,640 minutes. When he was finally alone in his room he looked at his chart. The words "flat-lined" and "two minutes" screamed out from the binder. His heart had stopped beating. He had died. But there was no recollection of a white light, no visits from Fitzgerald's who had passed before him, nothing.

1,838,400 seconds. The clock had kept on ticking and he wasn't awake to notice.