Herring

Grief and Wound

Pain.

Pain is truth. The body does not dissemble. It speaks in the first tongue: fire in the marrow, splinter in the bone. No philosophy. No comfort. Only the raw fact of hurt.

Greek named it algos—grief and wound made one word.

That is all pain teaches. Not wisdom. Not strength. A single, brutal arithmetic. You endure or you do not. The universe offers no third sum.

Pain is the only honest thing in the world. It asks nothing. It promises nothing. It simply is. And if you can meet it without flinching—if you can look into its dark, sorrowful, antediluvian, primordial existence and say, I am still here—then you have done the only thing that matters.

I endured. Not for love. Not for hope. For spite. Because the void does not deserve my surrender. Because the abyss, in its cold and perfect indifference, was erroneous. I decided to be the error in its consummation.

Pain, the only god that answers every prayer with the same unflinching verdict, and it speaketh in the tearing of flesh from bone.

Today, I ignore the will of this god. Today, I live. Today, I feel—

Pain.

— Deia.

Pain woke me. Not the polite kind. Not the gentle nudge of morning sunlight and birdsong — if that even counts as pain. This was the kind of pain that kicks the door off its hinges and sets fire to the room while you're still in bed. The kind that doesn't ask permission. The kind that doesn't care if you're ready. The kind that doesn't spit before it goes in. It just goes. Raw. Dry. Ridiculous.

My eyes opened to a white ceiling. My ears rang louder than a school bell at eight o'clock in the morning. White walls. White light. A machine beside me beeped with the steady, indifferent rhythm of a metronome from hell. Tubes ran into my arm. Wires clung to my chest. I tried to move my left hand and discovered it was wrapped in enough gauze to mummify a small animal.

Alive. I was alive.

The thought arrived not as relief but as information. Neutral. Clinical. I was alive, barely. My body was a ruin, but it was a ruin with a pulse.

Every cell screamed in its own specific frequency. Ribs: a deep, grinding ache that sharpened with every breath. Ankle: a swollen throb that radiated up my calf. Right hand: a hot, tight pain, like the skin was too small for what was inside it. The rest of me was a canvas of bruises in colors I didn't know human bodies could produce—purple so dark it was almost black, yellow at the edges, a sickly green that looked like infection but was just healing.

I tried to make a sound. What came out was a croak. A dry, pathetic rasp that died halfway up my throat. It sounded like a frog that had been smoking for forty years and had finally decided to speak.

A shape moved in my peripheral vision. Scrubs. A face that materialized into a woman with tired eyes and the particular brand of professional indifference that only exists in people who've seen too many bodies and not enough gratitude. She looked at me the way you look at a package you didn't order but have to deal with anyway.

Nurse: "You're awake."

No s**t.

Nurse: "I'll get the doctor."

She left. The door closed with a soft click. I lay there, taking inventory of what still worked. Toes? Present. Hurting. Legs? Attached. Complaining. Fingers? The left ones moved. The right ones were a mystery beneath the gauze. I could feel my heart beating—too fast, too hard—against the cage of my fractured ribs. Every beat was a small punishment.

What the f**k happened to my hand.

The doctor arrived. Silver hair cut short and practical. Face lined in the way of someone who had stopped being surprised by anything around the time I was born. He moved with the unhurried efficiency of a man who had seen every possible way a body could break and had developed a system for each one. He checked the monitors. Pressed cold metal to my chest. Shone a light in my eyes that felt like an icepick to the frontal lobe.

Doctor: "Vitals are stable. You're very lucky, Miss Nira."

I didn't feel lucky. I felt like a bag of broken glass that someone had shaken vigorously and then left in a corner.

Deia: "Water." I said with the raspiest rasp a rasp could've ever responded with.

The nurse reappeared with a cup and a straw. The water was room temperature and tasted like the plastic tubing of a hospital that had given up on small luxuries sometime in the previous century. It didn't matter to me. In that moment it was the best thing I had ever tasted in my nineteen years of living. I drank until the cup was empty and then wanted more but couldn't form the words.

Doctor: "You've been through a significant trauma. We'll discuss the full extent of your injuries once you're more alert. For now, rest."

He left. The nurse adjusted something on the machine and left too. I was alone with the beeping and the white and the pain.

Okay. Great. I'm alive. That's something. That's... something I guess.

Fuck.

The cops arrived in the afternoon. I knew they were cops before they opened their mouths. They had that look—the look of people who have seen the worst parts of humanity and have decided, consciously or not, to become a little bit worse themselves in order to survive it.

Two of them.

Detective Morrison was built like a brick shithouse. Broad shoulders that strained the seams of his jacket. Thick neck that merged into his jaw without any discernible transition. His face was a slab of granite left out in the rain for a few decades—weathered, impassive, unreadable. He had a mustache that looked like it had been drawn on with a marker and then regretted. His eyes were small and set deep, like someone had pushed them into his skull with their thumbs and they'd never quite popped back out. He stood by the door with his arms crossed and didn't speak for the first ten minutes. When he finally did speak, his voice was a low rumble, like a truck downshifting on a hill.

Detective Reyes was the one to watch.

She was smaller than Morrison but occupied twice the space. There was a coiled energy to her, a sense that she was always three moves ahead and already bored with the conversation. Her hair was pulled back tight enough to give her a permanent expression of mild surprise. Her face was sharp—cheekbones that could cut paper, a jaw that tapered to a decisive point. But the thing you noticed, the thing you couldn't not notice, was the scar.

It ran from her left ear down to her jaw, following the line of the bone like a river on a map. Old scar. Well-healed but still visible, a pale ribbon against her brown skin. It wasn't ugly. It was the opposite of ugly. It was the kind of scar that told a story without telling it, that made you want to ask and also made you certain you shouldn't. She'd stopped trying to hide it—no makeup, no strategic hair placement. She wore it like a credential. Like proof that she had survived something that was supposed to kill her and had come out the other side more dangerous than before.

What a cop huh...

She sat in the chair beside my bed. Morrison remained at the door. The geometry of the room shifted. I was no longer a patient. I was a subject.

Reyes: "Miss Nira. We have some questions about the night of your accident."

Her voice was flat. Not unkind. Just flat. The flatness of a person who has learned that emotion is a liability in her line of work.

Deia: "I have questions too. Like why does everything hurt and what the f**k happened to my hand."

Reyes didn't smile. Morrison didn't move.

Reyes: "You were in a vehicle that went off the Alaskan Way bridge. A black pickup truck. The driver was Varietta Solano. Does that name mean anything to you."

Deia: "No."

Reyes: "She was wanted in connection with a heist at a federal data center approximately three hours before the chase began. Classified information. National security implications. The kind of crime that doesn't make the news because someone decided it shouldn't. She was also linked to at least two other major operations in the past eighteen months—arms trafficking, money laundering, a suspected homicide in Portland that never went to trial due to insufficient evidence. She was, by all accounts, a very dangerous woman."

She paused. Let that land.

Reyes: "So I'm going to ask you again. How did you end up in her truck."

I stared at the ceiling. The ceiling was white. Very clean. Probably hadn't committed any federal crimes.

Deia: "I was walking."

Reyes: "Walking."

Deia: "My bike broke. Chain snapped. I was on foot. She pulled up in that truck and offered me a ride. I was cold. I was wet. My ankle was f****d from climbing a fence. I got in."

Morrison made a sound from the door. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a grunt. Something in between.

Morrison: "You got in a stranger's truck. In the middle of the night. During a citywide pursuit."

Deia: "I didn't know it was a pursuit until the sirens started. By then I was already in the truck and she was driving like she was trying to outrun God."

Reyes: "Let's back up. Before the truck. You were on Falk Street. You vandalized a wall. Officers approached. You ran."

Deia: "Yes."

Reyes: "Why."

I looked at her. At the scar. At the eyes that didn't blink enough.

Deia: "Because I'm not the most American looking chip off the block and I was holding a marker next to fresh graffiti. I've seen enough true crime to know how that story ends for people who look like me. It ends on the ground with a knee on my neck or in a cell with charges that don't stick but ruin my life anyway. So I ran."

Morrison shifted his weight. The floor creaked.

Reyes: "You evaded capture. You met with an unidentified male. You escaped through Westlake Station together. Who was he."

Deia: "I don't know."

Reyes: "Description."

Deia: "Big. Tall. Three coats. Beanie. Scarf over his face. Ran like he'd been doing it his whole life. We collided in an alley and ran together because we were both running. He got off at Pioneer Square. I never saw him again."

Reyes: "Name."

Deia: "Didn't get one."

Reyes: "You ran for your life with a stranger and didn't ask his name."

Deia: "I asked. He didn't answer. We were a little busy not getting caught."

Yeah maybe I lied a little. He was way too nice to throw under the bus like that. He did kinda save my life, before a certain someone tried to end it less than 5 minutes later.

Morrison: "And then you just happened to get off at Beacon Hill and just happened to get into a fugitive's truck."

Deia: "I got off at Beacon Hill because I missed my stop. I was tired. I was in pain. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was walking home. She pulled up. I got in. That's it. That's the whole story."

Reyes leaned back. The scar caught the fluorescent light and gleamed like a thin silver wire. She looked at Morrison. Morrison looked at her. A whole conversation passed between them in the space of a blink.

Reyes: "Solano is dead."

I stopped breathing.

Reyes: "She surfaced approximately forty yards from the impact site. Our units were waiting. She was armed. She didn't comply with orders to surrender. She was neutralized."

Neutralized. What a clean word for a messy thing.

Reyes: "You were found deeper. Trajectory analysis suggests she used something—or someone—to push herself toward the surface. If you had surfaced first, it would have been you instead."

That b***h. That absolute f*****g b***h.

She pushed me down to save herself and died anyway.

Karma's a b***h and so was she and so am I apparently because I don't feel sad.

I don't feel anything except this cold, specific satisfaction that she's dead,

and I'm not.

Reyes: "Given the circumstances, we're not pursuing charges. Wrong place, wrong time. You've been through enough."

She stood. Straightened her jacket. Looked down at me with those unblinking eyes.

Reyes: "Next time you have a bad day, Miss Nira, stay inside. Buy a journal. Take up knitting. Don't write on walls in the middle of the night during a police operation."

Morrison: "And maybe get a better bike chain."

They left.

I stared at the ceiling for a very long time. The beeping continued. The pain continued. The world continued. And I was still in it.

Oh f**k me. Please.

You thought this was done? It's not titled 'Pain' for no reason. Christ.

The doctor returned with a clipboard and the expression of a man who was about to ruin my day.

Doctor: "I'm going to read you the full list of your injuries. I want you to understand the extent of what your body has been through."

He didn't wait for me to agree. Like lemme consent dammit.

Doctor: "Laceration to the right palm, deep, required eight stitches. The wound was contaminated with river water and debris. We've treated it with antibiotics, but there is a moderate risk of infection. You'll need to keep it clean and dry and monitor for any signs of sepsis."

He turned a page.

Doctor: "Two fractured ribs. Fourth and fifth on the left side. Hairline fractures, not displaced, which is fortunate. They'll heal on their own with rest. You'll be in significant pain for four to six weeks. Breathing deeply will hurt. Laughing will hurt. Coughing will be an act of self-harm. I'm prescribing painkillers. Use them sparingly."

Another page.

Another?

Doctor: "Severe contusions across the torso, upper thighs, and both arms. You have extensive bruising that will take several weeks to fully resolve. You also have a grade two ankle sprain. You'll need to stay off it as much as possible. Elevation. Ice. Compression. The usual."

He paused. Looked at me over the clipboard.

Doctor: "We also removed multiple glass fragments from the gluteal region. These appear to be older wounds. Not from the accident."

The fish tank. The f*****g fish tank. I had been walking around with fish tank glass in my ass for TWO DAYS and nobody knew and now a doctor is telling me about it like it's a fun fact.

Deia: "Yeah. That was... a separate incident."

Doctor: "I see. Well. They've been removed. The area has been treated. You'll have some scarring."

Oh give me a f*****g break.

He continued.

Doctor: "You were treated for early-stage hypothermia. Your core temperature had dropped to dangerous levels by the time you were extracted from the water. You also had water in your lungs—pulmonary edema. We've managed that with oxygen therapy and diuretics. Your breathing should return to normal within a week or two, though you may experience shortness of breath with exertion for some time."

He lowered the clipboard.

Doctor: "You also sustained a concussion. Mild to moderate. You may experience headaches, dizziness, sensitivity to light and sound, difficulty concentrating, and mood changes. These symptoms can persist for weeks or even months. If they worsen, or if you experience any loss of consciousness, you need to return immediately."

He paused. Let that all sink in.

Doctor: "You were unconscious for fourteen days. The first week was medically induced to allow your body to begin healing without the stress of consciousness. The second week... you simply didn't wake up. Your body needed the time. We were beginning to worry."

Two weeks?

Two f*****g weeks of my life. Gone.

Consumed by the void while I was underwater dreaming of nothing.

Doctor: "We're going to keep you for three more days of observation. If your vitals remain stable and there are no signs of infection or complications, you'll be discharged with prescriptions for pain management and antibiotics. You'll need rest. Significant rest. No strenuous activity for at least six weeks. Follow up with your primary care physician. I'm also referring you to physical therapy for your ankle and hand."

I probably wouldn't go… Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm being discharged this early because quite frankly, I don't think I can afford the healthcare, and I think they might've found that out too. f**k.

He looked at me. Really looked at me, for the first time.

Doctor: "You're very lucky to be alive, Miss Nira. Most people who go into water that cold, with those injuries, don't come back out."

Yeah sureeee. Let's go with lucky. If this is me lucky, oh god would I hate to have a bad day.

Fuck…