Lightning Crashes

By Star Crossed Vigilante

I woke up in a lumpy hospital bed, unable to move. Every muscle in my body screamed with pin pricks of pain. Each nerve ending felt like a miniature sun embedded within my flesh. But the pain in my hand, my left one, was the worst.

"Nngh," I moaned, attempting to pry open my eyelids. They weighed ten pounds each; felt swollen and puffy.

"Max?" said a high, tearful voice.

I tried to answer, but could only moan: "Nngh?" My eyes reached half-mast, and the pinched, tired faces of my father, mother, and brother swam into view, their heads silhouetted against bright, sterile lighting.

"Oh, Max," my mother sobbed. Her hands were pressed tightly to her lips. "My baby, my baby, oh—"

"I didn't mean it when I called you a hag," Nikky said quickly, anxiously. "Really I didn't! I—"

"What were you thinking, Max?!" my father boomed. "You're lucky to be alive!"

A woman I did not know—I assumed her to be a nurse—bustled over. "Hush!" she said. She began to fiddle with a clear plastic bag hanging from a steel rod. "Darling, I'm going to administer a pain killer intravenously, okay?"

I 'nngh-ed' again and closed my eyes, but not before I caught site of a needle spearing the back of my hand. It was held down by gauze and tape.

Needles, I thought. Needles. Oh, God, not needles.

But then… it didn't matter any more. Mercifully, everything faded into gray.

When I woke up a second time, my family was absent.

"Max?"

I tried to turn my head but found the feat to be impossible. Instead, I opted for saying: "Why…can't… move?" The sentence came out slurred and hoarse and incomplete; my throat was raw. Immediately, I started coughing.

"Now, now," said the voice. It was a man's voice. A large, calloused hand swam into view, holding a plastic cup filled with water. The hand looked like God's, and the water heaven.

He held the cup to my lips: I drank, though most of it spilled across my face to pool in the shell of my ear and the sheets beneath my head. Still, my throat was saved.

The cup vanished as the last of the water left it, and since talking was obviously too much of an effort to make, I merely groaned the word: "Move?" A towel descended and dabbed at the moisture on my cheeks. The rough weave set off sparklers of pain behind my eyes, and I groaned.

A face appeared over me when the towel vanished. It was crow-like and stern, with horn rimmed glasses set over sharp brown eyes.

"You were struck by lightning, Max," it said. Its thin lips moved dizzyingly, and I fought to keep my eyes open. "Three times, in fact. The electrical impulses connecting your brain to your muscles and your nerves have been utterly scrambled. Until they recover, movement will prove impossible."

I stared up at him. What had he said? I couldn't remember. "Fix?" I implored softly, again sighting my lack of movement. "Heal?"

"That is what I have come to speak to you about," the doctor—for that is what he is, I deduced—said softly. "We—meaning both myself and my colleagues—believe that if your body was put into a drug-induced coma, the electrical impulses connecting your brain and nerves would correct themselves—with luck, and with time."

"Luck?" I choked. The man smiled grimly, tight lipped.

"We think the process would work better if we administered shock treatment during your state of interim, in order to direct the impulse flow," he said. "This is, of course, risky, so we need to ask your permission before we administer the drugs. I understand you turned eighteen last August?"

"Yes," I murmured. "True." The doctor nodded brusquely.

"Then do I have your consent?"

I stared at him, then said, for lack of any better ideas, "Yes."

"Good, then. I will inform your family." His face disappeared, and I was about to close my eyes again when it returned to hover above me. "Speaking of which, would you like to see them one more time before beginning treatment?"

"Treatment—?" I choked, surprised.

"The sooner the better, I should think."

I sat still a moment, then said: "Yes."

"I'll be back in a moment with the anesthesiologist." He disappeared, this time for good. I heard a door opening and three pairs of footsteps drew close.

"Max?" said a small voice.

Nikky.

"Kid?" I breathed. He face peered down at me.

"Hi, Max."

"You… okay?"

"I'm good." His voice cracked halfway through, and his eyes filled with tears. Mom's face joined his, as did her tears. Dad's followed.

"Max," my dad said gruffly. "You can expect hell from me when you wake up."

"Matthew!" mother gasped. Dad stared at me, then lightly touched the back of my cheek with his hand.

"You'll be okay," he said. His eyes crinkled with a smile, but the look could not hide the anguish brimming in his dollar-green eyes. I noted absently that we had the same eyes. Had I known that before? I wasn't sure. Thinking was just too difficult. "You always are. Always have been. My baby girl. Did I ever tell you how much I loved you?"

"Yes." What was he saying? He seemed pleased by my answer, though, so I did not ask.

"Good, then. We all love you."

I got that part, and answered with: "Know."

I heard two sets of footsteps. The faces of the first doctor and another doctor I didn't know joined my family's.

"We will administer the drug now," said the first doctor. "You'll be under in seconds, so say goodbye, for now."

"Goodbye for now," my family chorused dutifully. The faces of the doctors disappeared, and all at once I felt very, very tired.

As I began to descend once more into darkness, a small, small voice addressed me.

"Max?"

"Nikky?"

"Promise that you'll wait in line with me for Devil May Cry 4 when you wake up, okay?"

"Nik…"

"Promise!"

"Prom…" I began, "…ise…"

But then the darkness descended like an oily wave, and promises were nothing but words.

A/N: Scene inspired by one I had with my sister when she was about to go into surgery.

Devil May Cry © Capcom.