Page 7 of What's Left of Us

“Life,” I grumble. He’s talking about the rest of my life, because fifteen consecutive charges with a Death Row verdict doesn’t magically go away. “Forever in a cage. That’s worse than Death Row. With that, there’s an ending. Forever in a cage… it’ll feel like more than a lifetime.”

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” Tobias says. “I’m on retainer for you, however long you need. The FBI won’t sit in and question you anymore without an attorney present. This won’t be the messy interviews from before your disappearance. We’ll be ensuring that they do not try and swindle more confessions out of you, Mr. Constantine.”

I groan, letting my eyes close again. I don’t think I can keep them open anymore. “No money, buddy. You’re not gonna get paid to represent me.”

“I took care of that for you,” the other voice says, and more than anything I want to pry my eyes open and focus on him. But the cocktail of sleeping pills and pain meds they keep giving me is working too well, and I can’t fight the pull of sleep. I just woke up, but I’m ready to go under again. I might miss this more than anything when I go back to the cell.

Do I thank the stranger, or am I just digging a bigger hole for myself lawyering up?

I hear screaming in the halls, so maybe there’s another emergency going on. The two voices in my room don’t seem that alarmed, and Tobais continues in a calm voice. “I will call the PD and FBI and ensure everyone knows you’ve retained a lawyer. We’re going to fight this and win you back some justice, Mr. Constantine. This time, you’re not alone.”

Why can’t I be alone? The question is on the top of my tongue, but I can’t get it out. I can’t get much of anything out as sleep threatens to drag me under, and even the pain in my leg and hip is lessened the deeper I fall.

I want to think about Jo’s trembling body, Vinny’s strong hands and commanding tone, and Sterling’s wide eyes as he got to experience all of us together. I want to think about that stolen moment of happiness. But instead, my mind keeps focusing on one thing each time I wake.

My Fake Porscha. The phantom that travels with me through everything is gone. I haven’t seen her in days, and I truly hate that I miss the illusion. If I can’t even get my head to let me see what I want, what’s left of me?

~~~

The next time I’m awake, the doctor is in and I don’t see any agents or strange faces. It appears to be the following day based on how bright it is outside the windows, but I’ve lost track of when I got here to begin with. I want to ask about my last visitor, or the last one that I recall, but the doctor immediately gets down to business. I don’t even consider myself fully awake by the time he starts talking.

“Your results aren’t what we hoped for,” he begins. “The previous scans show that your muscles are depleted from lack of use, which isn’t unexpected but it is better than what I originally expected. The septicaemia looks like it’s going to be an ongoing issue for you. Because you’re healing poorly, we’ll have to see how your wound heals at the next appointment.”

My gaze shifts to my guard of the day, a local officer here in Tallahassee who seems to think it’s cool he gets to watch the serial killer. “Appointment?”

“Once the hospital clears you, you’ll go back to prison,” the doctor explains. “If you pass all the exams today I’ll discharge you. The Florida Department of Corrections will handle your transfer back.”

Listening to him rattle that off jars me. I knew my time here in the hospital would be short lived, but no one’s given me a definitive timeline since I woke up. I’ve barely seen a single FBI agent, and the only thing I’ve gotten out of my guard detail is now they have to work around all the red tape to speak with me since there’s an attorney involved.

I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that this is being drawn out. Until something goes to court and upsets what’s already been determined about my case, there’s no changing my sentencing or anything else. I’m not even certain I want it changed.

I’m still going to be charged with multiple murders, no matter what. Not facing the death penalty is just existing forever in a box, like I told my new attorney.

I stare at the doctor in front of me, his reddish hair threaded with grey, and try to decide what exactly hewashoping for. “So what does that mean for me?”

The Doc clears his throat. “The infection in your hip sat for too long and caused septicaemia, a serious type of infection as we previously discussed. I had hoped the antibiotics would help to clear up the infection but it’s still lingering. As for the pain you're experiencing, I can prescribe some pain medications to alleviate the ache in your hip but it will only do so much with the onset of septic arthritis. Your loss of motion is still concerning and something we can check at a later appointment to see if it’s improving. Septic arthritis isn’t going to be very fun in prison.”

Thanks for the reminder.I stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. I’ve heard little updates about my issue since waking up days ago, but no one’s moved me from the hospital back to prison. My arms are constantly handcuffed, and my whole body is wound tight being confined to a bed again. It’s giving me flashbacks of Porscha and the basement.

Glancing around, I look for my ghost again. Fake Porscha hasn’t returned since I woke up on my first day here, and it’s giving me an eerie feeling. I don’t know what to do when the illusion isn’t haunting my waking moments. It certainly doesn’t feel like I’ve done anything to deserve her departure.

I suppose some inmates might think of this as a vacation, but I don’t. Even being on the run wasn’t a vacation, it was just a different form of punishment.

Until I found my lovebirds, and their stray passenger along for the ride. I suppose if they cart me off to Death Row, nothing they can give me will be a better last wish than gettingto spend one last time with them. Even if our little group has shifted from three to four.

When I’m gone, I suppose the hole could be filled by Sterling. I just don’t know if I like the idea or not.

Doc says something to the nurse about running more scans, and she practically flees the room. Every doctor, nurse, or technician I’ve seen seems to fear the CGS, and it’s better that they do. I don’t want or need people who have a sick infatuation with my alter ego popping up here in the hospital. I’m doing my best to not exist while I’m here.

There's a knock at the door, and I glance up in surprise as McKinney walks through the door. The doctor says something on his way out about checking more scans, but I'm only half listening as he exits.

McKinney steps up, clicking his tongue as he reaches out and shakes my hand. That's just bizarre, because no one bothers with the formalities with me anymore. “The FBI has some questions for you. The agents will be in in just a moment if you're feeling up for it. This would be good before you head back to prison, Mr. Constantine.”

“Let's just get it over with,” I grumble. Seeing the agents could mean anything, and there's really only one I'm interested in.

“Hey, he's cooperating,” McKinney goes on, speaking to the big man on guard duty. “Think we can work off the handcuffs?”

“Absolutely not.”

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