Chapter 2: The Past Revealed

The nurse was a pretty young thing. Strawberry blonde, nice lips. Her hands were gentle and controlled as she shaved him, careful around the scar on his right cheek. She had given him a sponge bath earlier. Very thorough, that girl.

Deliciously naughty nurses like her made his current condition much easier to bear. Aside from the occasional flirtation, his hospital stay had been a living hell. For the first couple of days after opening his eyes, he could only stay awake for minutes at a time. As his periods of consciousness increased, he was taken off the IVs and started rehabilitation. A week passed before he had been able to talk with any lucidity, and still longer before he regained his hand-eye coordination and was able to walk. The frequent migraines were a bitch, too.

Freddy hadn't known that so many types of therapy existed in the world. Physiotherapy, occupational therapy, speech and language therapy, not to mention countless appointments with psychologists and social workers, all sitting in the same irritatingly colourful offices, all spewing the same bullshit about how they wanted him to be able to live a normal life. It had been like fucking senior high all over again. He was sick of people telling him how fucking lucky he was; lucky to be alive, lucky to wake up from the coma, lucky to have no lasting brain damage, lucky to have none of the disabilities usually associated with a traumatic brain injury. They really had no fucking clue.

The only worthwhile part of the experience was that the nurses had been very kind to him, especially the young, single ones. He suspected that their typical comatose patient wasn't as glamorous-sounding as a cop injured in the line of duty.

He knew that they whispered about him, wondering what had happened to him. Heck, he wondered that about himself, often enough. His inability to recall the events leading to his present condition had alarmed him at first, but the psychologist had explained that he was experiencing something called psychogenic amnesia, or "memory repression". The thought that his mind was holding back his memories both disturbed and intrigued him. The police who had come to visit had been familiar. He remembered their names and they'd been happy to chat (and tell him how fucking lucky he was, bastards), but evasive in the face of his pointed questions. It had been annoying as hell at first, but he eventually reassured himself that they would explain what the fuck had happened to him once he recovered.

Meanwhile the nurses were having fun with their speculation, no doubt coming up with all sorts of thrilling stories about the events that had led to him taking a bullet to the head. To them he was a mystery man, a motherfucking James Bond. Shit, he didn't mind that at all.

"There." Strawberry Blonde carefully wiped his face with a damp cloth. "You're quite handsome after a shave," she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

He enjoyed their kisses, their flirting, their fondling. He could not entirely explain the psychology behind the attraction. Maybe it wasn't just the romantic officer of the law character; it could very well be a pity thing. He was helpless, something to be cared for, like a fucking abandoned puppy. But damn, did he like it.

Maybe a little too much…

Fuck.

She had noticed.

Strawberry Blonde was staring at his lap, and sure enough there was Little Freddy, standing up for everyone to see.

Now, a hard-on during a sponge bath is understandable, but after one single fucking kiss on the cheek? Was he a fucking teenager? He didn't blush – he had too much self-control for that – but he couldn't help shifting just the slightest bit where he sat on the bed.

The nurse glanced at the vinyl blinds, which she had closed for privacy during his bath. Then she gave a delicious smile and slid into his lap.

Soft, hot, sweet, the taste of a woman's mouth. Her fingers, still damp from shaving him, caressing his belly and chest under the hospital pajamas, lingering on the scars. His hands on her back, running over her buttocks, squeezing her firm thighs. Leaning back against the wall. Hips flush against hers. Eyes closed, lost in touch and taste and smell.

He moved his lips down her throat and traced kisses along her collarbone – his signature move, and one that worked nearly every time. The sound of her breathing was loud in his ears, and the faint, flowery smell of her perfume tickled his nostrils –

A waitress leaning past him to fill a coffee cup, wafting her cheap floral scent –

"...world's smallest violin playing just for the waitresses."

"… Mr. Blue, Mr. Orange, and Mr. Pink."

"…crowd control. They handle customers and the employees…"

Intense stabbing pain deep in his gut. Falling, firing, the woman in the car falls back –

"I can't believe she killed me, man! Who'd've fucking thought that?"

"…been brave enough for one day."

"…a fucking set-up or what?!"

Sitting in his crummy apartment on a hot afternoon, listening to his Sandy Rogers CD for the third time in as many days. Wondering when the fuck they were gonna call –

"…gotta be naturalistic as hell."

"Joe, trust me on this, you've made a mistake. He's a…"

"…I'm a cop… Larry."

An unreal sense of floating – due to the blood loss, some part of his mind notes. Nestled in a pair of arms, a feeling of agonizing remorse, the cold barrel of a .45 Magnum pressed to his cheek and just waiting for his friend to pull the –

His eyes snapped open and his body launched itself forward in a desperate violent reflex. Distantly he heard Strawberry Blonde shriek as she tumbled to the ground. Every muscle was painfully contracted, mouth strained wide open in a soundless scream, sweat breaking out all over his body. His mind was on fire. Jesus fucking Christ!

Clamorous voices, hands pressing him back down to the bed, but to no avail. He dimly heard a lamp crash to the floor. His thrashing arms caught someone in the face and there was a sharp yell. They were holding down his limbs so relentlessly that he knew they would leave bruises, but still he struggled, trying to run away from the images surging through his brain in a raging torrent. Voices urgent and purposeful, countless hands pushing him into the mattress, a needle in his arm as they injected him with something to–

His muscles relaxed, and he sighed in relief as his eyes slid shut. The voices continued, quieter and questioning. They were wondering what had happened to cause such a reaction. But he knew the reason: he remembered.

Answers to all of his questions were wedged in his brain, never to leave again. The drug they had given him worked quickly, which was a blessing. He couldn't face the horrifying memories that had flooded his head, not now. There was a reason why his mind had protected him from this – but awaiting him was darkness, sleep, and welcome oblivion.

His last thought before he lost consciousness was that he was scared to death of waking up.

A/N: "Why?" you may ask. And I answer, "Because in Quentin Tarantino's universe, a bullet to the head isn't always fatal." I'd love to hear what you think.