Page 17 of Proof Of Life

What the fuck was it with this guy? “The fuck do I know? I haven’t exactly tried to use it yet, being stuck in the hospital night and day with nurse Liza barging in on me unexpectedly every fifteen minutes.”

He laughs now, and I’d give anything to get out of this chair and take a swing at him.

“Well, there’s your homework for tonight. Find out if your dick works.”

“What the fuck do you want to know about my dick so bad for? Do you want it or something?” I know I’m pushing the bounds of decency, but really, why is he so fucking interested in my cock?

“Trust me, a working dick is a great motivator for recovery. Find out if it works.”

I give him my signature ‘what-the-fuck-ever’ expression that Brandt loves and shake my head, letting my eyes scan the room. Soldiers of every size and shape, color, and gender are grunting and sweating in pain as they push their broken bodies to the limits. I’m not the only one in here missing a leg, or worse. A small measure of shame fills me because they’re working hard to regain use of their bodies and I’m sitting on my ass, complaining and crying like a little bitch. God himself can’t get me to believe that I’ll be cross-country skiing someday, but if I could just get up and walk to the bathroom to take a piss by myself, I’ll count it as a win.

Navarro Riggs seems like a real asshole, but if he can help me get my ass out of this wheelchair, maybe I should listen to what he has to say.

“What’s a six-letter word for dimwitted?”

If I’m going to spend hours with my ass glued to a plastic chair, I’m going to need a new hobby. Playing word games on my phone is getting old fast.

“Brandt.”

“What?” I look up from my phone to see him staring into a cup of Jell-O as he mutilates the chunks with a plastic fork.

West slides his gaze to me. “Six-letter word for dimwitted. Brandt.”

“You’re a fucking comedian.” Dismissing him, I return to my phone, racking my brain for the answer.

“Christ,” he curses, making a disgusted face. “I can smell myself.”

It’s hard not to laugh. “I can smell you from over here.” Which is true, I can. He’s really let himself go lately. His beard is growing in, his hair is greasy and unwashed, and I’m not sure when the last time he brushed his teeth was. Liza tries to bathe him in the bed, but West usually refuses. I don’t know if it’s because he’s depressed and content to waste away, or if he’s too self-conscious to show her his body now that it’s so altered. Probably both.

I pocket my phone and just study him for a moment. He’s staring out the window, which he does for hours on end every day. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking, but I’m pretty sure it’s all very dark.

West was like a live grenade. You couldn't put the pin back in once you pulled it out. He was drawn in bold lines and bright colors. He had a loud, filthy mouth and no filter, and was usually willing to take stupid risks, as long as no one else's life was in jeopardy but his own.

That was the old West, the guy I used to know. The SFC. The Team Leader. My best friend.

He was larger than life.

The guy lying in his bed right now is someone else, someone I don’t recognize any longer. A washed-out, pale version of himself.

I’d give anything to have him back.

“It’s bad enough being the one-legged cripple in the wheelchair. I don’t want to be the smelly, greasy one-legged cripple in the wheelchair.” He pushes his tray table away, and looks directly into my eyes. “Will you help me?”

I hate to hear him talk about himself like that. It turns my fucking stomach, but I can’t chastise him every time he does it or I would sound like his mother.

“Sure, help you with what?” I stand, ready to do any favor he asks of me.

“Help me take a shower.”

I’m a little startled, because until now, he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in hygiene. “Yeah. Let me call Liza–”

“Fuck Liza. I want you to help me.”

I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised. Of course, he’d rather have my help than hers. He trusts me, is less self-conscious with his body around me.

“Okay, but is it safe to take a shower? Isn’t it like, a fall risk or something?” I'm already lowering the bed rails, knowing damn well the risks.

“Not if you don’t let me fall.” There’s a hint of a smile teasing his lips, and it’s a quick glimpse of the old West I miss so much.

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