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1040 Words
He makes a soft sound of sympathy. “Yes, I’d imagine that hurts. You’ve got quite a lot of swelling. Have you had any headaches?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“No. Actually, I take that back. I felt sick on the plane when I woke up. But I figured it was from the ketamine Declan gave me.”
If the doctor thinks it’s strange that Declan administered me a drug that made me pass out, he doesn’t mention it. That’s probably the least strange thing he’s seen treating one of Declan’s patients.
“Are you seeing flashing lights? Any problems with your hearing?”
“No and no.”
“Recent memory loss?”
“Yes…and apparently, I fainted. But I don’t remember that.”
“Ringing ears or double vision?”
“No to both. Am I dying or what?”
“You are, but it will take four or five more decades.”
At least he has a sense of humor.
He packs up and puts his hat back on, preparing to leave.
“Seriously, though, what’s the verdict?”
“A mild concussion. Nothing to worry about, but make sure you rest for a few days. If you experience any more symptoms, or if your headaches get worse, we’ll need to get you a CT scan to ensure there’s no bleeding on the brain. In the meantime, ice that lump. It will help the swelling and discomfort.”
“Bleeding on the brain? That doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t. So please tell Mr. O’Donnell immediately if you continue to feel unwell.”
“I will. Thank you.”
When he leaves, I feel restless and unsettled. So of course, I have to send Declan a text.
The doctor said I’m dying.
I pace until his response comes back.
So my luck has finally changed.
Jerk. Will you please come in here and talk to me?
Why?
I’m bored.
If only that were lethal.
Stop being mean to me!
Give me one good reason why.
I chew my lip before answering, I think I’m scared.
He doesn’t answer. I don’t know why I was expecting he would. I pace around the room, chewing my lip and imagining what death by brain bleed would look like, until the door opens and Declan walks in.
With his hand still on the knob, he says, “If that was a lie, I’ll open that window and push you out.”
Why does he have to be such an asshole? Such a handsome asshole, which is somehow even worse.
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life, and now my brain is bleeding, and my memory is going, and I’m fainting like one of those stupid goats, and my head hurts like someone’s been jackhammering it, and I’m probably going to die with only you for company. Can you blame me for being upset?”
His eyes are narrowed, doubtful, arctic blue.
I throw my hands in the air. “I’m not invincible!”
“So that deal you made with the devil for the power to kill with run-on sentences didn’t include immortality?”
I stare at him with my heart beating hard and anger working its way up my throat. “You know what? Forget it. Go back to your fulfilling mobster lifestyle of kidnapping innocent people and murdering your enemies and generally making the world a much shittier place, and forget I said a damn thing.”
I turn and walk as far away from him as I can go, to the wall of windows on the opposite side of the room. Then I stand with my back to him and my arms wrapped around myself, trying for the first time since I was a fat little kid getting bullied on the playground to hold back tears.
I hate him for this. Nobody makes me cry.
When I hear the door close, I release a breath and bow my head, closing my eyes and cursing myself for showing weakness.
“It’s just that you don’t seem like you have a vulnerable bone in your body, lass.”
The voice is warm, soft, and comes from directly behind me. The bastard snuck up on me while I was busy feeling sorry for myself.
“Go away.”
“That’s not what you wanted two minutes ago.”
“Two minutes ago, I didn’t hate your guts.”
“No? I feel sorry for the people whose guts you do hate if this is what you not hating them looks like.”
I groan and bang my forehead against the window a few times.
He pulls me away from the glass and says softly, “Stop. You’ll hurt your head.”
“It’s already hurt, thanks to you.”
“I told you I wasn’t the one who dropped you.”
“Stop talking. You’re making my headache worse.”
His hands had been around my upper arms, but now they slide up to my shoulders and rest lightly there. He’s quiet behind me, as if he’s mulling something over.
“If you’re about to strangle me, just get it over with.”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
I’d tell you to go to hell, but it wouldn’t be a burn, considering that’s your hometown.
After a long moment when I’m silent, he says, “You’re too quiet for my comfort. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Your funeral.”
I’m surprised when he starts to laugh. He laughs and laughs, like he hasn’t enjoyed himself this much in a long time.
I look up at him over my shoulder. “You’re bipolar. Right? That’s the root cause of all your mystifying behavior. Bipolar disorder.”
“No.”
“Too bad. If you’d said yes, I would’ve been nicer to you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because mental health problems aren’t a choice. You, on the other hand, are deliberately an asshole.”
His smile is so bright, it’s almost blinding. “You bring out the best in me, lass.”
“Oh, go jump off a bridge.” I turn back to the window.
- Writer
