The antiseptic smell is the first thing I notice, sharp and clean, mixed with the faintest scent of something metallic - blood, maybe. The room is dim, the only light coming from the small lamp beside the bed. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, and then the pain in my abdomen brings it all back. I wince, shifting slightly, and that's when I see him.
Kurt is sitting beside me, his face tight with something like concern, though it's hard to believe that's real. The sight of him so close sends a jolt of fear through me. I flinch back against the bed, my pulse quickening.
"What are you doing here?" My voice is rough, more a rasp than anything else, but I manage to get the words out. I want him gone, but the weakness in my voice betrays how vulnerable I feel.
Kurt's eyes flicker, and he leans forward slightly. "You were hurt. Pretty bad. They had to operate," he says quietly, as if afraid of scaring me more. "You've been out for a while."
My mind races, piecing together the fragments of memory - Chayton, the attack, Kurt dragging me to that closet. And then the pain, the splinter of wood tearing into my side. My hand instinctively moves to my abdomen, feeling the bandages beneath the hospital gown. Panic grips me as I realize we're alone. "Where's Brock?" I ask, the fear sharp in my voice. I need someone else, anyone else.
Kurt hesitates, glancing down for a moment before meeting my gaze again. "He had to go deal with something. I didn't want you to wake up alone, so… I stayed." He looks at me, something close to guilt shadowing his features. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice thick with sincerity that makes me sick to my stomach. "I didn't see that you were hurt before I put you in that closet. I should have noticed."
I scoff, the sound harsh and bitter. "That's what you're sorry for?" I snap, my voice rising despite the pain it causes me. The anger flares up, hot and consuming, drowning out the fear for a moment. "Out of everything you've done, that's what you're sorry for?"
Kurt's face tightens, and he looks away, the guilt deepening in his eyes. He doesn't answer, and the silence that follows is suffocating. I want to scream at him, to throw every bit of pain and anger I've ever felt in his face, but I'm too weak, too exhausted.
"Yeah," I mutter, turning my head away from him. "Figures."
The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable. I keep my eyes closed, hoping he'll take the hint and leave, but he doesn't move. I can feel his presence like a weight in the room, a constant reminder of everything I've been trying to forget.
After a while, the exhaustion pulls me under again, but the tension remains, a knot in my chest that refuses to loosen. Even in sleep, I can't escape the memories.
And I know when I wake up, he'll still be there.
aS
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