Page 11 of Saving Sparrow
Sparrow grabbed me by the throat, lifting my upper body off the tarp. “You were there when I woke up. My only mistake was not making sure you were dead before I left.”
Flashes of blood filled my mind’s eye; my ears rang from the sound of shrill screaming and gunshots.
“Y-you were there?” I croaked out, uselessly attempting to pry his hand off me. Sparrow dumped me back on my side. I coughed, my ribs protesting.
“Why?” His detached tone didn’t match his violence. “Why did you hurt him?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t hurt Elliott—not in the way Sparrow thought. I hadn’t protected him, though.Wehadn’t protected him. Our love hadn’t been enough.
I gave Sparrow the truth, but not the version he’d concocted in his mind. “Because I wasn’t strong enough.”
I didn’t see the blow coming. Pain exploded through my face, but I had to get one more thing out before the dark chasm embraced me.
“We loved you,” I whispered. We loved all of him, which meant even the part of him we didn’t know. “We… loved you too.”
Fire tore at my body as I came to again. I could hear the flames incinerating me, the crackle of my bones snapping and burning, and could feel my skin melting away.I was in hell, right where I belonged.
I pushed past the excruciating pain to open my eyes. Tears sizzled against my temples as they rolled away. I couldn’t move my head to see beyond the ceiling, but I was lucid enough to realize the shadow flames dancing there came from the fireplace, not my body.
I tried to make a sound, to cry out for help, but I couldn’t remember how.
My fingers spasmed on the surface beneath me.Carpet fibers.The tarp had been removed. Or maybe I was the one who’d been moved.
Consciousness began to slip from me again. Something about this time felt more frightening, more permanent. I ordered my limbs to move, but they remained heavy and battered, there but useless. It felt like someone had their foot on my chest, pressing harder.
The sound of a wailing siren broke through the chaos in my head. A fire truck, maybe. I clung to the distant sound, using it to anchor me to the here and now as my eyes closed. I held tightly to it, wondering if my sanity had been compromised when the sound of a child’s laughter joined in. I latched on to that too, carrying it into the darkness with me.
The fire in my veins had cooled the next time I woke up. My skin still felt flayed open, but the pressure on my chest had eased a bit. Breathing still took effort, though.
The lingering pain produced a sound I’d never heard myself make before. Part groan and part whine as it passed my chapped lips.
No matter how many times I blinked, I couldn’t clear the fog from my vision. I went inward, focusing on my other senses.
I reclined on something soft, but no less abrasive against my wounded skin. My mangled fingers throbbed, but I flattened my palms at my sides and pressed down anyway. My hands sank into the memory foam mattress. I’d been moved to the bed.
The presence of pain didn’t mean I hadn’t been paralyzed, so I attempted to shift my legs beneath the blanket covering me. A sheen of sweat broke out over my brow, but I was able to move them, even wiggle my aching toes.
My stomach felt hollow, my mouth dry, tongue heavy. I rubbed the pads of my bruised fingertips against the cotton gown barely covering my thighs. He’d changed my clothes, and I no longer smelled like my own filth.
The strain it took to deduce those few details exhausted me. Why had he cleaned me? Bandaged me up? Why wasn’t I dead? I wanted to cry but lacked the energy needed to. Instead, I drifted off to what sounded like the music of a jewelry box, imagining the pretty ballerina twirling inside.
It was easier to keep my eyes open this time around, although one only opened halfway. The curtains still fluttered, and the fire still raged, combating the cold. I could make out the dark sky clearly now, but still couldn’t determine if it was morning, night, or somewhere in between. The not knowing agitated me, and the clock on the wall still ticked even though the hands never moved.How long have I been here?
There was a strange taste at the back of my throat. It was there the last time I woke up, too, but I’d had more important things to fear. I could raise my arm now, although it shook and looked near emaciated. How had I survived this long without food? How longhadI survived exactly? This time when I cried, there was an abundance of tears.
Sparrow had replaced the bedside lamp, and it illuminated the IV line running from the back of my hand to two bags of clear fluid hooked to a pole. Noting the absence of significant pain, and how lightheaded I felt, one of them had to be a strong narcotic. I assumed the other was saline. I thought back to something Elliott had said once.
“My mother was a nurse. She used to patch me up.”
“Did you get hurt a lot?”
Elliott hadn’t answered. Silence was what he did best.
The howl of the wind grew louder, and the powdered snow accumulating on the sill made me afraid of what awaited outside. Had the worst of the storm passed, or had it only just begun?
I peered at the hospital gown I wore. It felt different, thicker than the one I had on the last time I woke up. The bedsheets were fresh too, and soap scented my skin.
I lifted the blanket, holding in a gasp at the sight of bruises along my legs, and the empty bedpan situated between them.
