(no subject)
The next few days, he waits and he tries to pretend that he isn't waiting. He lies awake at night, staring up at the patterns of the shadows on the ceiling and listening to the footsteps in the hall outside his door, but he doesn't push the call button and ask for more painkillers, for anything to take the edge off and knock him out.
He doesn't want to be taken out of the world. He wants to feel the edges of it. With increasing terror, he realizes that he actually might want to stay alive.
At least for the next few days.
"Hope your friend comes back soon," one of the nurses says as he's being helped out of bed, a young man with sandy hair and a broad smile who, like the pretty blond physical therapist, Mike wouldn't have minded getting to know a little better in happier days. "I think you've been doing better since he stopped by."
Mike shrugs. He doesn't want to make any commitments. No promises. Nothing he can fail at.
But a day later he's waving away the nurse, sliding his stump into the socket by himself. And when he's helped back to his room after therapy, still dragging that goddamn IV stand around with him, he waves away the offered assistance again, standing there in his sweaty clothes, unsteady and tired, feeling something solidifying in his spine.
"I'm gonna stay up for a few more minutes." He shoots the nurse a crooked, twisted smile. "I'm fucking sick of that bed. And I gotta get used to this."
The nurse nods, looking slightly doubtful but seeming to see the sense in this. Mike turns back to the window, leans against the sill and closes his eye, lifting his face into the sunlight. He hates the prosthetic. He hates the tightness of his own skin, the dryness of it, the way no part of his body still seems to comfortably belong to him. But he doesn't hate the sun, and he doesn't hate the cool breeze on his face.
And Neil is coming back. He does believe it. Neil is coming back.
God help me.
He doesn't want to be taken out of the world. He wants to feel the edges of it. With increasing terror, he realizes that he actually might want to stay alive.
At least for the next few days.
"Hope your friend comes back soon," one of the nurses says as he's being helped out of bed, a young man with sandy hair and a broad smile who, like the pretty blond physical therapist, Mike wouldn't have minded getting to know a little better in happier days. "I think you've been doing better since he stopped by."
Mike shrugs. He doesn't want to make any commitments. No promises. Nothing he can fail at.
But a day later he's waving away the nurse, sliding his stump into the socket by himself. And when he's helped back to his room after therapy, still dragging that goddamn IV stand around with him, he waves away the offered assistance again, standing there in his sweaty clothes, unsteady and tired, feeling something solidifying in his spine.
"I'm gonna stay up for a few more minutes." He shoots the nurse a crooked, twisted smile. "I'm fucking sick of that bed. And I gotta get used to this."
The nurse nods, looking slightly doubtful but seeming to see the sense in this. Mike turns back to the window, leans against the sill and closes his eye, lifting his face into the sunlight. He hates the prosthetic. He hates the tightness of his own skin, the dryness of it, the way no part of his body still seems to comfortably belong to him. But he doesn't hate the sun, and he doesn't hate the cool breeze on his face.
And Neil is coming back. He does believe it. Neil is coming back.
God help me.