Page 15 of Proof Of Life

“Fuck,” I curse softly. “I apologize for throwing a fork at you. It’s not my best day.” Just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the…

With her hands on her hips, she declares, “You’re forgiven. And don’t do it again. I don’t get paid enough to dodge utensils.”

The soft soles of her shoes whisper along the linoleum as she exits the room, and I grab onto Brandt’s arm and tug him back down.

“Why are you seeing the doctor?”

“It’s nothing, just a routine check-up,” he lies straight to my face. And I know he’s lying because he’s looking right into my eyes, trying to sell it to me. The longer I hold his gaze, the more he starts to fall apart; his nostrils flare, and then he bites his bottom lip.

Without invitation, I reach for the bottom of his khaki T-shirt and pull it from his cargo pants, revealing his scarred torso. It’s the first time I’ve seen it, and I don’t know what I was expecting, but Jesus fucking Christ, he’s covered in half-healed wounds. His beautiful skin will never be the same again. But there’s one that stands out among the rest, a large white bandage under his right pec. The gauze is damp with leaking yellow fluids.

“Christ, West!” He tries in vain to tug his shirt back down.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, just another shrapnel scar.”

I raise my eyes from his ribs to his face. “Lie to me again and see what happens.”

His throat works, and he tugs his shirt back down. “It’s nothing. It got infected, but I’m sure the doc will give me something for it.”

If I was angry before, it’s nothing compared to the rage building inside of me now. Heat suffuses my face. “If you weren’t so busy babysitting my fucking ass all day, you might have more time to take care of yourself!” His eyes roll at my outburst, just one of many lately, and the thin thread of my self-control snaps. Next to my bedside is some sort of breathing apparatus from respiratory therapy used to strengthen my lungs that I chuck at him. “Don't come back until you're loaded up on antibiotics!”

“Settle the fuck down, West, jeez.”

The dam of anger holding back my grief cracks wide open, and hot tears spill over my cheeks. “I can't…Brandt, I can't lose you, too. It's too much. Please,” I beg, and I'm not even sure what I'm begging for. I just need one less person to feel responsible for. One less burden to carry. It's so fucking heavy, and I'm so fucking exhausted.

“Hey,” he coos soothingly, rubbing my shoulder, “I’m right here. I'm not going anywhere. Let me get this taken care of and I'll be right back.”

All I can do is nod through my humiliating tears and snot. The gentleness in his voice makes me feel so vulnerable, and I just want to crawl into his embrace and let him erase the myriad of emotions that are eating through my gut like a corrosive acid. But he pulls away too soon, and I’m left alone again with my thoughts and my feelings. I hit the button again on my morphine drip, and in minutes, I’m drifting through the clouds, feeling weightless, feeling free. There’s no burden to carry up here in the morphine haze.

Everything is just… Easier…when I’m flying high.

Sometime later, the warmth of a solid body comforts me from behind as I lay turned on my side, on my good leg. His hand on my hip tugs me from a dreamless sleep, courtesy of the morphine. Brandt’s deep voice is a soothing lullaby in my ear.

“I’m back. Doc said everything’s gonna be alright.”

The intimate connection of his hand covering my hip is a soothing comfort I crave, and yet, it makes me want to cringe. I’m the last person on earth who deserves the comfort of another’s arms, but the relief I feel knowing he'll be okay is like breathing a deep breath of fresh air after being suffocated.

Brandt shifts, bringing his body closer to mine, until his chest is flush against my back, and he sighs deeply, a sound of relief and contentment. How long has it been since he had a good night's sleep? I don’t want to rob him of it—of the peace he finds being so close to me. In truth, I miss him just as much, if not more. If he can just remain silent and enjoy this unguarded moment without calling attention to the fact we were stealing comfort from each other when I’m so undeserving, I can let it pass. We can enjoy a few hours of rest and wake up recharged and ready to fight another day. Just please, I beg silently, don’t say how much you miss this. Don’t say it out loud.

His breathing evens out to a soft snore, and I can feel his warm breath puff against my shoulder through the thin cotton of the hospital gown. I choke down on my inner demons that want to crawl to the surface and push him away, and I just let myself feel—for a few precious moments, I just allow myself to feel the proof of his life, his breath against my skin, the heat from his body, and the solid weight of his hand on my hip. Just for a moment, I can allow myself to feel connected to another person.

It’s at this moment I realize that if I do wake up tomorrow, and I will, unfortunately, it’s only because of him. With the loss of my team and my career, and my family, I really only have Brandt. Sure, he can do without me; he’s a big boy. Completely self-sufficient. But I know how I would feel if I lost him. It would bury me six feet under the ground where I belong. I can’t do it to him. I’ve taken enough lives, I can’t take his. I can struggle through the wasted existence of my life, if only to save his.

As I drift off to sleep, I carry that thought with me. As if I’ve been given new orders, it was now my mission. To live—for Brandt.

God only knows how long we sleep before we’re woken by Liza. She pushes into the room carrying my dinner tray. Brandt stirs behind me and sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“You know, you almost look human when you’re sleeping, especially when you let him near you. It’s like you’re hiding a streak of kindness deep inside of you,” Liza taunts.

“Don’t believe it. I’m still an asshole.”

“I believe that,” she agrees, arching her brow. She holds up a plastic package containing utensils.

“Plastic forks?” I almost have to admire her foresight. It doesn’t hurt when I throw plastic.

“I don’t get paid enough to take your shit, Sergeant, which means I’m not going to from here on out. I’ve read your chart. It clearly states you’re thirty-two years old, but if you want to act like a child, I am going to put you last on my med rotation. After my twelve other patients. After my dinner break. And after my fifteen minute coffee break. Oh, did I mention my charting?” she asks smartly, tapping her bottom lip. “It will be a long, painful night before I make my way back to you again.”

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