Chapter Eight.
(arwork in progress... will be posted when finished)
"Ah, ha ha. They should really give you merits for punctuality." Gerard said with a wry little smile as he felt the now familiar chill of a cotton cloth wet with alcohol on the skin of his right forearm. "Every hour --aaaahhhoooowww-- on the hour. You know, at this rate, I won't need a watch, because I've got you stabbing me with a GODDAMN NEEDLE every goddamn hour of every goddamn day."
"Goodness, it's not my fault."
"Well, why the hell do they need so much blood? And why are they taking it from me?! I'm an invalid, a patient. Don't tell me they're actually taking my sick blood and putting it in someone else who's more sick to try and make them better."
"All right."
There was a long pause in which she finished the job and he brooded over what exactly was "all right" about being routinely stabbed with a needle. He felt a little ashamed for blowing up on her like that, considering she hadn't refused him anything since he'd been under her care. She'd saved his life a few times when he had severe coughing fits with the breathing apparatus on, and she was so unbelievably patient. He fumed. What he'd give to behave now as he did when he was a student. But such behaviors were long buried.
"Here you go, Patty. This one goes down to Doctor Schecter, all right? Thanks. Oh, and when you come back, try to bring Amanda, if she's not busy. We might need her."
After recieving the confirmation, Gerard heard receding footsteps. Sarah's hands were lying very still on his arm, and she was quiet. He thought she might be looking at him, but he had no way of knowing. Though the bandages on his face had been changed a few times over the last six weeks, he had only seen her as a whitish blur across the dark room. He couldn't get the image out of his head. It rippled in his mind when he thought of it, like he was looking down into a pool of water and she was standing over him.
He was so busy revisiting this image that, at first, he didn't notice she was playing casually with his fingers. He was surprised, but felt comforted by it, nonetheless. He took the opportunity to explore her palm with his fingers. Her skin was cold. Soft, but cold. The fingers were thin and tapered to short nails. She wore some sort of bracelet, whcih he hooked a finger into when she began to pull away. She released her grip on his hand, but upon realizing he clung to her jewelery, she didn't yank away. Instead, she let his hand be suspended there in space for a minute, as if determining whether or not it was his intention to hang there, off her chain.
He started to say something a few times, but nothing really made it out. Her other hand came up under his, unhooking the finger. She manouvered slightly, and his hand made acquaintance with an angled jawline.
"What are you--" he started.
"The bandages will be removed soon. And today, seeing as how your lung is doing so well now that you're off that contraption, they're going to..." she trailed off, slowly releasing her hands, and leaving his to explore her face on its own. "I want you to know what I look like before you see me. Because if you feel you need to go, having an image will keep you grounded."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You'll see. It's unfortunate, and in no way either of our faults. Keep this in your consideration, and remember my face. And do not forget to be strong."
He detected a wary anticipation in her voice, but he tried to put that beyond his thoughts. He concentrated his energies into the hand resting on her face. As he ran his fingers across her features, he tried to construct some form of picture in his mind.
She was youthful, probably around his age, or maybe a little older. Her hair was cropped to just below the ears, and it lay in defined waves. The jawline and chin were well-defined, angular, the eyebrows arched. All in all, from what he could discern, she had good looking features, with that kind of mouth he liked. The top lip was short, which, in his opinon, makes for a nicer smile, and the bottom had a slight cleft in the center, lending it to more of a heart shape. As he passed over it again, he noted that her chin was fairly square. Gerard rested his thumb there for some time, in that space between her lip and her chin. There was something all-too-familar about it, but before he could mention it, a commotion came through the doorway.
It was a fairly large group of people, he determined. At least six. There was some sort of cart, or a gurney... something metal on wheels. There was a babble of discussion, but he didn't catch any of it. He felt Sarah's jaw clench, and her breathing quickened.
"Sarah, what's going on?"
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Gerard. Just remember what I told you. Remember my face. And be strong!"
Her face left his hand very suddenly, and foreign hands descended on his limbs, much like that first day. Leather straps bound him to the counter. His injured left leg was removed from its sling and strapped down as well. He panicked, screamed out. Everyone in the room was talking to him at once, and he caught none of it. He tried to flail out, fight off these hands, but he could barely move. He started to pick up some of the babble above him. It was all a mess, and didn't make much sense to him.
"Keep him steady." "Watch the head. Someone hold the head." "We can't spare anyone." "Put something under his head then." His head was lifted and what felt like a towel of some sort was put underneath. "Ready the tourniquet." "Nurse, the bandages." "Alcohol." Gerard threw whatever strength he had into shaking his entire body from side to side, hoping against hope that the straps would come free and he could get away. As the tourniquet was affixed to his thigh, a new wave of panic spread through him.
"You're not amputating me! You're not taking my leg! I won't let you!"
"Doctor Aaronsen is not going to amputate you." came a voice near his head, "He's going to remove a piece of shrapnel that's lodged under your kneecap."
The babble continued, and Gerard made out a few words here and there. Something about blood pressure and pulse, a long list of technical-sounding acronyms, a bucket brigade of instruments on the other, a short deliberation as to whether his lung could really hold up, and then two words that very nearly stopped his heart.
"No morphine."
He was going to have to go through this in full consciousness, without any drugs to even numb the area slightly. He wouldn't be able to sit up and clutch his knee in pain. He didn't even have anything to hold onto. He just had himself to count on to be strong enough to pull through. He didn't care if he screamed, if he cried; he just needed to make it through. Alone. He'd only ever felt this alone twice in his life. One was as he watched that big oafish football player knock Mikey out and come stomping over to him; the other was on the day he gave up alcohol, though that was far from the reason why.
Something sharp introduced itself to the side of Gerard's knee, but that wasn't nearly as shocking to him as the slender, tapered fingers that slid into his.