Page 5 of Colt
My gorgeous, bratty stepsister.
What a pain in my ass that girl is.
Has been for years. Especially around the time I started to notice she was beautiful. Luckily, she hates me. That makes things easier.
Though it’s nothatethat I see on her face right now. It’s worry. So, I guess she doesn’t hate me so much that she wishes me into an early grave. Which is something, I suppose, even if it is a small thing.
“You’re awake,” she says.
“Reluctantly.”
Then, a medical team comes in. My room is like a clown car of doctors. Everyone’s looking at readouts and vitals. And then there’s a doctor who comes in to talk to me about recovery.
I’m lucky, I didn’t get a severe head injury – I’m told. It was bad enough. I had a concussion; if I hadn’t had the helmet on, my whole head would’ve caved in. There’s absolutely no question about that. But the superficial wounds on my head were the worst part. The bull managed to graze me with that horn underneath the front grate on the helmet, and he tore my scalp from the center of my forehead down toward my ear.
I’ve got a fuckton of stitches there.
The real issue is scar tissue that could develop in my torso. He tore open my midsection, and there was apparently a substantial amount of repair that had to be done internally. They said it’s the kind of surgical scarring prone to creating networks of stubborn, healed-over scars, making movement stiff. Then there’s the issue of my leg. The description of my leg injury is actually so graphic that I almost feel a little bit sick. I look up at my mom, who I realize saw it all
“We had to go into the arena later that night and look for your bones,” she whispers.
Fuck.
My thigh busted open, and I lost bone in my femur. The doctor says it has the potential to be a life-changing injury. I’m lucky I didn’t lose it. The operation involved them methodically piecing my shattered bone back together, and it’s possible there will be long-term chronic pain and reduced mobility.
No. I just don’t accept that. I won’t accept it. I don’t want to.”
“It’s a very long healing process. You won’t be putting weight on this leg for four to six months.” The doctor looks at me, his grey eyes steady on mine. “I know that is not going to be a pleasant process. But I’ve gotten to know your family over the last few days, and everyone says that you're strong and you're stubborn. So, you’re going to do your PT and do the best you can. You’re not going to give up.”
Being in the kind of pain I’m in, knowing that I’m essentially one giant stitched-up bag of cracked loose bones, makes mewantto give up before I even have to start. This kind of helplessness is something I’ve never experienced before. I want to escape my body.
This is some bullshit, honestly.
I’ve got a cast from the top of my thigh down to my toes. I can’t move at all.
“But the championship is in October.”
“You’re not going to the championship,” my mom says, her voice firm. “Even if you healed, you didn’t get any points for that ride.”
I grit my teeth together, and I know she’s saying that because she doesn’t want me to hope. Because I would have to keep competing if I wanted to go to the championship, since that ride fucked me all up, and while I might be crazy enough to try and get myself healed by October, I know that I won’t be healed in time for any of the rides leading up to that.
“But…”
I feel like a child. Sitting there arguing against logic and medical authority. But it just doesn’t seem… Like the kind of thing that could possibly happen to me. I’ve been working at this for so long. I’m good. I’ve never had an injury that came anywhere close to this, and Dallas Dodge and I have been riding bulls since we were sixteen.
I look around the room for the first time, past my family. It’s an explosion of balloons and flowers. Sent from…I wonder who all sent all this?
“Has Dallas been here?” I ask.
“Of course,” my mom says. “He was here earlier today.”
I frown. It’s a long drive from Medford to Gold Valley.
Then I look out the window.
“Where are we?”
“They moved you to Tolowa Medical Center.”
