A week passes in a blur of sterile white walls, the constant hum of machines, and the suffocating weight of enforced rest. I hate every minute of it, the way I'm trapped in this bed, weak and helpless. Every time a nurse comes in, I'm reminded that I'm not the girl who can handle herself anymore. Not right now, at least.
But today is different. Today, I get to leave.
The doctor gives me a brief rundown of my recovery plan - rest, painkillers, follow-up appointments. I nod along, barely listening. I just want to get out of here, away from the reminders of how close I came to not making it. Away from the memory of Kurt sitting beside me, watching over me like some kind of protector. The thought makes my stomach churn.
When they finally wheel me out to the front of the hospital, I'm expecting to see Brock. He's been here every day since I woke up, checking in, making sure I had everything I needed. But he's not here. Instead, I see Kurt standing by the curb, his expression unreadable as he watches the nurse wheel me out.
My heart sinks. I grip the armrests of the wheelchair, my knuckles turning white. "Where's Brock?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Kurt steps forward, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He's busy," he says, his tone careful, like he's trying not to spook me. "Hood's gone. Brock's in charge now. He sent me to help you get home."
A cold wave of dread washes over me. Of course, Brock doesn't know our history - how could he? But the idea of being alone with Kurt, of letting him drive me home, terrifies me. I don't want him to know where I live. I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising panic. "I can manage on my own," I say, though the words lack conviction. I don't even have my own car here, and the thought of trying to get home by myself in my current state is laughable.
Kurt hesitates, then shakes his head. "You're in no shape for that. Let me help."
I want to refuse, to push him away, but I know I'm not strong enough. Not yet. Reluctantly, I nod, and the nurse helps me stand. The pain flares in my abdomen, sharp and deep, and I have to bite back a gasp. Kurt moves closer, ready to catch me if I fall, but I pull away from him, not wanting his help. He watches me, his face a mask of concern, but he doesn't push it.
The walk to his car is short, but it feels like a marathon. Every step sends a jolt of pain through my side, and by the time we reach the car, I'm trembling with the effort to stay upright. Kurt opens the passenger door for me, and I lower myself into the seat, trying not to show how much it hurts.
As he gets in on the driver's side, the silence between us is thick, heavy with everything unsaid. I stare out the window, refusing to look at him. The engine roars to life, and we pull out of the hospital parking lot.
The drive is agonizingly quiet, each second stretching out into what feels like an eternity. I can feel his eyes on me occasionally, but I keep my gaze fixed on the passing scenery. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to be here.
Eventually, he breaks the silence. "Do you need anything from the pharmacy? Or any food? Anything?"
I don't respond, just turn back to the window, my chest tightening with emotions I don't want to face. The rest of the drive is silent, the tension between us thick and palpable.
When we finally pull up to my place, the familiar sight of my apartment building brings a strange mix of relief and dread. Relief because I'm home, but dread because I know I'll have to rely on Kurt to help me inside.
He parks the car and gets out, coming around to my side before I can even try to open the door. I let him help me out, my pride burning as I lean on him more than I want to. The pain in my side is worse now, the walk up to my door feels like torture, but I force myself to keep moving.
Once we're inside, he hesitates, looking around as if unsure what to do next. "Do you need anything?" he asks, his voice tentative.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I just want him to leave, to let me be alone so I can pretend this never happened.
He lingers for a moment, as if he wants to say more, but finally, he just nods. "If you need anything, call Brock. Or… or me," he adds, though we both know I won't.
With that, he turns and leaves, the door closing softly behind him. I stand there for a moment, leaning heavily against the wall, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The silence of the apartment feels oppressive, pressing down on me from all sides.
I'm finally alone. But instead of feeling relief, all I feel is an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and a pain that goes deeper than the wound in my side.
I'm thirteen years old, huddled on the floor beside my bed, tears streaming down my face. The sound of my father's voice echoes down the hall, sharp and menacing. Kurt, my older brother, stands in the doorway, his face a mask of conflict and fear. Our father's commands are clear and brutal.
"Do it, Kurt," our father growls. "She betrayed this family. She needs to learn her place."
Kurt's hands tremble as he grasps the leather belt. His eyes are full of anguish, but he takes the belt with a resigned nod. I can see the pain in his eyes, a reflection of my own fear and humiliation.
The room seems to close in around me as I brace myself, clutching at the mattress. Kurt approaches, his steps slow and heavy, and with every step, my heart pounds harder. The belt lashes against my back, each crack a jolt of searing pain. The tears come faster, mingling with my cries as Kurt, following our father's orders, continues to whip me with the belt.
The memory blurs, but the sensation of the leather biting into my skin, the sting of each strike, is as vivid as ever. I can still feel the welts and bruises forming, the rawness of the pain. Kurt's eyes, filled with regret, meet mine only briefly before he looks away, unable to offer comfort or solace, knowing that any defiance toward our father by him will be met with more more devastation than a few lashes from a belt.
It was the last day I called him brother.
I make my way to the couch, collapsing onto it with a groan. The effort of holding it together finally breaks, and tears blur my vision. I hate this. I hate him. I hate that he's back in my life, making me feel things I don't want to feel.
But most of all, I hate that a part of me, however small, is still waiting for the brother I used to know to come back.