Chapter Four: Recovery Hurts
1296 Words
So what the hell happened?
Isaiah didn’t answer right away. He was standing now, not sitting, pacing the small space between the bed and the window like he couldn’t stay still without breaking something.
“You cheated on Mom,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t loud. That was worse. “At the bar. With Luther’s girlfriend.”
The words landed hard. My stomach twisted.
“Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds when I say it out loud?” he snapped, turning toward me. “You didn’t just mess up. You blew everything up. Mom. Luther. Our whole life.”
I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry. Nothing came out.
“She told me what happened,” Isaiah went on, anger bleeding through now. “Luther found you. He lost it. And he pushed you off the roof.”
He stopped pacing. Just stood there, staring at me.
“I thought you were dead,” he said. His voice cracked on the last word, and his jaw tightened like he hated himself for it.
“And Mom…” He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face with both hands. “She filed for divorce while you were still unconscious. Papers are done. No waiting. Just—done.”
That hurt more than any bone I’d broken.
“She wanted me to live with her,” Isaiah said. “And yeah, maybe I should. Maybe that would make more sense.”
My chest tightened.
“But I didn’t,” he said quickly, almost angrily. “I’m seventeen. I get to choose.”
He stepped closer to the bed, eyes burning.
“I’m pissed at you, Dad. I don’t even recognize you right now. But I’m not leaving you alone after this.”
That was the part that broke me.
“I shouldn’t still care this much,” he muttered. “You screwed up. Big time. But you’re still my dad.”
My vision blurred. I stared at the ceiling, trying not to let him see it.
“Isaiah…” My voice came out rough. “You don’t deserve any of this.”
“No,” he said immediately. “I don’t. But here we are.”
He sat back down hard in the chair, arms crossed again, like putting armor back on.
“I love you,” he said, quieter now. “I’m just… really mad at you.”
I nodded slowly, guilt pressing down on me a like weight I couldn’t shift.
“Dad.”
“Yes?” My voice sounded weak.
Isaiah didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he was choosing how hard to hit me.
“There’s something else you need to understand,” he said. “Recovery hurts. Not just your body.”
He looked up at me then, eyes sharp.
“Everything else too.”
I swallowed.
“The truth is what’s going to hurt the most,” he continued. “Coming back from this? It’s not some inspirational bullshit. It’s a f****d-up battle, and nobodywalksks away clean.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m not telling you this just so you can hear it,” Isaiah said. “I’m telling you so you can feel it. I want it burning through your veins.”
He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.
“I got this thick skull from you,” he said. “Hard to crack. Stubborn as hell. But I'm about to say? Is going to be like a baseball bat striking at your head!
He leaned closer.
“And I’m not swinging to scare you. I’m swinging until it breaks.”
I couldn’t look at him.
“I’ve been holding this in for eight f*****g months,” he said quietly. “While you were asleep. While everyone kept telling me to be strong.”
His voice dropped.
“I dealt with it alone.”
He sat back, eyes never leaving mine.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“But the best part of your situation,” he said, “is you aren’t going to be alone, Dad.”
He took a breath.
“Because I’m here. I don’t want to see you go through what I went through.”
I looked at him, confused.
“I’m not like that,” Isaiah continued. “I couldn’t cheat the script. But I’m letting you cheat it. We’ll win this together.”
I looked at him with dreary eyes that started flooding like an ocean slapping against beach sand.
I tried to speak. My mouth opened, but the words tripped over each other, my voice stuttering until I finally forced it out.
“Why… why are you letting me che–che–cheat the sc–sc–script?” I said. “I deserve this. I need to write the story on my own. I created it. Now I will make the ending.”
I swallowed hard.
“I don’t want you to be my knight in shining armor. I can’t let you.”
“Shut up, Dad,” Isaiah snapped, but there was pain in his voice, not anger. “I’m helping because—yeah—you f****d up. Yeah, you made me think you died. f**k yes, that destroyed me.”
He stepped closer.
“But you came back. Hell yeah, you did.”
His voice cracked.
“That s**t is tough. And you never let me fight a battle on my own.”
That means a lot Isiah. How long did the doctor say I have to remain here after I woke up?
“They said you’ve got about six months of recovery left in the hospital,” Isaiah said. “Six months before they even talk about release.”
He hesitated.
“But it’s six months of you not dealing with anyone. No crowds. No normal life.”
I nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right, Isaiah.”
My voice cracked. “But I’m happiest knowing you’ll be with me through it.”
He didn’t hesitate this time.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I’m with you all the way.”
Dad I have one more thing to tell you and show you.
He looked at me with eyes of hesitation and a voice of what the f**k.
“Dad… there’s something else I need to tell you,” Isaiah said. “And show you.”
“Yeah?” I asked. My voice was tight, my eyes already saying oh boy, what am I getting myself into now.
He slid a book toward me — upside down.
The second my fingers touched it, my stomach dropped. The texture was familiar. Too familiar.
“I recognize this book,” I said slowly.
Isaiah nodded. “I bet you do.”
“Is it one I used to read to you?”
He frowned, confused. “Uh… no. Flip it over.”
I turned it right-side up.
My eyes went wide — wider than they ever did the day I was told my mom died.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“I found it on your desk,” Isaiah said. “In your room.”
“On my desktop?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t even know you used to write. Look at when you wrote it.”
My hands shook as I opened the book.
The date stared back at me.
Written: February 7th, 2028.
I checked the current date on the hospital monitor. February 11th, 2032.
Four days.
Four years.
Four days and four years before the night Luther pushed me off that roof.
My throat went dry.
When did I write this?
I hadn’t just written a story.
I had predicted the future.
- Writer
