Page 7 of Born of Ice

“Will she skate again?” The question pierces the air out of nowhere, that voice sounding a lot like Filip’s, and I fight to open my groggy eyes. God, even this is a whole feat. I’m never drinking again.

“Mr. Masso, at this point you should be asking if she willwalk.” This new voice sounds almost irritated, angry.

Who are they talking about? Why are they talking here, in my home, this early?

“And will she?” Is that Erik? Thank God, he’s here. Maybe he can finally turn off this stupid beeping.

“We’ve done all we could at this point. Now, it is up to her.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? How can it be up to her? Who’s the doctor here?” The rage in Erik’s voice has my eyes flying open all the way, but before I can process anything there is a loud thump that follow with more squeaks and yells, but none too comprehensible.

And God, there are so many voices. Why are there so many voices in our house?

Beep, beep, beep, it goes again, but this time my heart picks up its beat because I know that sound. I know it all too well and it isnotmy alarm tone.

Hospital.

The shaky thought enters my consciousness. I’m in a hospital, and all of a sudden there is an onslaught of scents, sounds, and tactile feelings that I somehow missed before now. That undeniable stench of antiseptic, skin-burning hand sanitizer and agony, but also flowers. Too many flowers. The pinching sting in my left arm and bandages over my right. Then there is that beeping that started picking up in tempo as of my realization.

“It means, Mr. Shishkov,” the doctor bites out, “that the surgery went as well as we could have hoped, considering the circumstances. Her heart stopped on that table, and we barely got her internal bleeding under control. But we won’t know if there’s any nerve damage until Miss Monroe wakes up. Her body needs to heal on its own. And I’m not even going to start the discussion regarding her mental state when she comes to it.”

Miss Monroe…they said, Miss Monroe. That’s me, right? They are talking about me.Mr. Masso, at this point you should be asking if she will walk.

Gasp.

And just like that it all comes back to me. The program. The switch in the routine. The new, complicated twist lift. The fall. “Oh, God…” My body starts shaking. “The fall.” I feel my arm going limp as the heart monitor jumps into wild beeping, and I want to scream, to call for someone, because suddenly, I can’t draw another breath.

I can’t…I can’t…my chest…it hurts so much. The lights go off, only I know they didn’t. I must be losing consciousness. Again, it seems. No, I can’t. I need to know what’s going on.

“Breathe, Miss Monroe.” Out of nowhere there are hands on my chest along with a flurry of people around us. “My name is Dr. Miles; you are at Boston Medical Center. You are okay, everything is okay. Please try to take a deep breath.”

I try to focus on his words said with a calm I don’t feel but will gladly feed off.

“That’s right,” he says with approval when I manage to suck in a tiny wisp of air. “Good job, take another one.” I do as he directs, managing a deeper one this time. “Good, good.”

The black spots dissipate from my vision, and I see Dr. Miles’s weathered face smiling kindly at me as the nurse behind him fusses with my IV.

“Drink,” I manage to whisper hoarsely, and a second later a straw is pressed to my lips.

“Take small sips for now, okay?” I nod as the cool liquid trickles down my sore, burning throat. “There, better now?” I nod again and let my eyes take in my surroundings fully.

The room is quite large and filled with a lot of machines and flowers. God, no wonder it smells like a flower shop in here. At the far wall is a big window, showcasing the white flurries floating around in the morning sky.

Morning. The last thing I remember it was Friday evening and my boyfriend laid unmoving on the ice.

My eyes immediately seek out Erik and find him just as fast, leaning against the wall, his posture tired, but otherwise unharmed. His face in a grave, pained mask. His dark hair looks like he ran his fingers through it, and possibly tugged on it, at least a million times.

And his eyes? They aren’t seeking me out like mine are his, instead they are unnaturally cold, dead, full of anguish and staring far away. A few feet away from him is our trainer, Filip, looking about the same.

“I heard,” I start to say but my voice is still too hoarse, and I clear it before continuing. “I heard some of your conversation just now,” I admit, and Erik’s head falls against the wall as his body slides to the floor, those dead eyes not meeting mine. I plead with my own for him to look at me, to explain, but he doesn’t.

“Miss Monroe.” Dr. Miles turns my attention to him. “What do you remember last?”

“I remember our routine and the fall,” I say quietly just as Erik’s shoulders start to shake. I swallow the thick lump that is suddenly right in the middle of my sore throat. “I remember seeing Erik lying unconscious on the ice and trying to get to him and then…”

“And then?”

“Nothing. That’s all.”

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