I was 10 when the world ended for me. I wish I could say it was slow burn, creeping upon my life until it was forever altered; me blissfully unaware of the change until it was too late to do anything but accept. But it was a noteworthy explosion of pain and death that literally descended upon my life in a matter of minutes. No warning, no escape. Hell fire falling from the sky, monstrous booms, followed by red rivers in the sand. A once laughter filled childhood with two loving parents and a baby sister- obliterated 14 minutes and 4 seconds after the first bomb dropped. Poof...no more. An orphan to be, a pawn to play in a war I didn't yet know about.
A war being fought by men of greed. Consequences of their actions to be dealt upon the innocent. Destruction of a whole society's way of life for black tar and gold bars. Whiskey glasses clinking in celebration of riches achieved while babies cry into the rubble of their broken cribs. Lessons taught, but never learned by the ones in power - mistakes sure to be repeated in the skirmishes to come. Winning outcomes always paid in blood of the blameless.
An old man once told me, "Suffering is the curse of the ones that are left behind." I guess it's true because I can't say the ones that "live" live, because sometimes life after all you've known is gone, is a muted and bland existence of your own making. You're the shell of a former you and if your shell cracks, sometimes no amount of glue can make it unblemished and whole again.
My shell was dented and cracked, on the verge of splintering into a thousand shards when Barton, the collector of the lost, found me. The stupid coffee addicted moron, who likes to use archaic weapons and stupidly has to have a heart of gold in giving lost souls second chances, couldn't let me succumb to my hatred; no, he had to introduced me to a pissed off Russian who despised human connections and loved head games. Together our shared traumas created the catalyst for the paste gluing my cracks closed. Those that know death and can move forward can pretty much conquer the fucking world. We three, a dysfunctional family of our own choosing, saviors for each other. A share pain, morphing- pawns turning into Knights, Kings, and even Queens...
But now... now I just might break.
Pin pricks of light, the smell of ammonia. A squeak of a chair and a flick of a turned page.
Feeling returns in a cocoon of floaty numbness. Must be on the good stuff. I pry my eyes open and see boring white. A soft beeping causes me to roll my head down and left- a heart monitor and some liquid bags attached to a pole. I roll my head to the right and my breath hitches.
The last moments of my memories overwhelm me - blood matted hair, a weeping bullet wound...my heart breaking. Three to two. But not two to one. I must have suffered a concussion because Tasha sits cross-legged on a crappy plastic chair leafing through a Life magazine. Her head is down, hair loose, framing her petit face and hiding the deadly wound I know is next to her left ear. She blows a bubble; it pops upon her lips and she licks it back inside her mouth. She continues to chew as if nothing has happened...turning another page in her magazine.
"It's ok маленький"; you did good." Her fingers pause half way to turning another page while her eyes lift to meet mine. Her face is a splattering of purple and yellow-green. The darkest plum color settled in front of her left ear. My heartbeat beats faster, blood pounds in my ears as my palms start to sweat and tears leak from my swollen eyes.
"I'm sorry," I hiccup, "so, so sorry." The tears are free flowing now, accompanied by a little bit of snot. I watch Tasha causally reach her left hand over to pluck a tissue from the box on the nightstand before gently blotting my tear tracks, folding the tissue in half and wiping under my nose. I'm paralyzed with grief. How could I have survived and now this, my stupid brain punishing me with visions of my dead best friend comforting me.
My breathe is coming in frantic puffs, air not quite making it full to my lungs. The beeping to my left is angry, and I start to feel woozy. Tasha begins to hum while dabbing a new tissue under my nose. I attempt to lift my left hand to touch her wrist, but am distracted by the front door opening beyond the foot of my bed.
A nurse walks in, a needle in her hand. She rushes to the side of my bed and fiddles with the IV line leading to my left hand. She never glances in Tasha's direction. I look to the right and notice that my right palm is encased in a thick gauze, causing it to feel detached from my body. Tasha has returned to her magazine, turning another page while the nurse whispers calming nothingness to me as an icy feeling fills my veins and the world shift, darkens and starts to sizzle out.
"Sleep маленький." A slight Russian accent carries me to slumber. "Я тебя люблю"
I experience periods of restlessness followed by light, blurry faces near mine, pokes and prods. Sound wavers in and out, but I latch on to the darkness, relishing in the absence of everything. I don't want to come awake to a world without my best friend. I don't want to come to terms that everything has changed. I hold fast to the numbing bleakness until one day a pulsing dull pain invades my dark sanctuary. The dull ache becomes pins and needles cursing up and down my body, mostly emanating from my right hand. The ache becomes a burn and I have no choice but to open my eyes to see if I can stab out the discomfort.
A blurry set of grey wavers in my sightline. It comes into focus with lavender hair and a stupid smirk. I make some sort of gurgled sound while pushing my head deeper into my pillow. "At last," the floating head says and pulls back from my face. I blink twice and focus on Barton standing to my left with a wide smile and a guilty look. He thrust an ice chip between my lips and the melting liquid revitalizes my dry mouth.
"Long?" I croak.
"4 days." Barton says, but squirms. His right hand is behind his back. "What…did?" I exhale and look pointedly at his disappeared arm. Ugh, my brain is fried. "No-nothing," he replies. "Liar," I counter. He takes a big breath and brings his right arm in front of him, a needle between his fingers. I look from the needle to him and raise an eyebrow in question.
"You were taking too long to wake up," he breaks eye contact and looks down. "They said," his breath hitches, "they said you might never wake up." He brings his eyes back to mine and lays his hand on my left wrist. "I need you." He starts to rub circles across the back of my hand. "We need you" he whispers under his breath. We?
The pain in my body is awakening, focusing my jumbled thought. Barton most have stopped the good drugs and, "Ambien?" I inquiry. His roaming eyes answer my question. My brain is focusing, with it, memories flood back in. "Tasha," I gasp. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." The tears are back while my left hand grips the bed sheet in a tight ball. "So sorry." I find great interest in the thin blanket tucking me into this twin sized bed.
"Why?" Barton asks. Why? Why! My heart is beating faster, alerting Barton through the nosy machines. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. "Hey," he rubs my hand faster, "It's ok. Everything is ok." Tears are obscuring my vision but I need to look him in the eyes so he knows how incredibly sorry I am for getting our best friend killed. He needs to know I tried my best, but my best wasn't good enough. He needs to know that we're now, just two. I start to lift my dark blues towards him, but at that moment the hospital door swings open again and all I see is red. What-? I blink my eyes furiously to clear the tears.
The "red" is 5 feet from me now, with it comes the subtle scent of jasmine, my favorite, and the sound of a pop. My vision clears and Natasha is standing at the foot of my bed, blowing another bubble. I turn my head towards Barton, he seems unfazed, looking at me with worry. My eyes snap back to Tasha. She meets my gaze and reaches down to squeeze my left ankle. Her hand feels solid, anchoring me to the bed…to this reality. I hiccup.
"I told you it would be OK," she says.
"Wha-what?...How?" I barely manage. A bubble of snots pops across my upper lip.
"Gross," Barton says, but wipes the goo away with a tissue. "The bullet skimmed my head," Tasha shrugs. Barton turns to look at her, tilts his head, then whips his head back to me. "She's alive. God, did you think she was dead?" He looks taken aback. I hiccup, a fresh river of tears leaks from my eyes. "Alive?" I question.
Tasha comes around the left side of my bed and gently pushes me more towards the right edge. I feel the solidness of her hands on me. I hiccup again. Tasha puts her right leg on the bed and follows with the rest of her body as she curls into my left side, careful to avoid the wires protruding from my hand. Barton mingles his fingers with mine and squeezes. I turn my head left and see vibrant green. A head of red silky hair nestles into the crook of my shoulder and doesn't move, even as salty tears flatten the straight locks. "Alive," I whisper. My breathing evens out, my heart slows. Wait. "Did you say you love me?" A loud popping sound in my ear is all the answer I get.
Маленький – Little one.
Я тебя люблю – I love you.