Page 102 of Tear Me Down
“I’m okay…” I inhale deeply, desperate to suffocate on his scent. “I’m much better now.” He tightens his hold on me, but not so much that it hurts any worse. I can feel the way my body trembles mildly against him, but the strength of his grasp gradually eases it. His breaths gradually return to a normal rhythm, but I can feel the strain behind them. He’s obviously in a lot of pain, but he’s putting it aside for me. I look up to see the IV dangling over the bed, wondering what exactly is in the tube. “How long before you let me go and allow them put that back in?”
“At least ten hours, maybe ten years, I haven't decided,” he says desperately, like I would try to argue, and I snort out a tiny laugh as he nuzzles his head against mine. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry.” I look back at hisexhausted and guilt-ridden eyes, hating the depressing blue that’s shimmering in the irises.
“I love you too, Damien. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, this isn’t your fault.” I gently raise my hand to his cheek and move my thumb over his jawline. “Please don’t blame yourself.”
“I'll give control over DH to Zeke if that’s what you need,” he offers, willing to throw his life into the trash just to ease my mind. I bunch my eyebrows at him in confusion, not understanding where that thought could’ve come from. “I can hand it right over to him if that’s what you want. I’ll give it all up.”
“No.” I refuse immediately and sternly, and all he gives me is a confused and remorseful look. “Devil’s Hands is a part of you, and I love you. All of you, and I'll always support you. You wouldn't beyouif you didn't fight for what you believe in.” He shakes his head vehemently.
“You can't keep getting caught in the crossfire. I don't want our baby to be two years old wondering where Mommy is.” The shakiness in his tone breaks my heart, and I can see the evidence of the turmoil the past day has caused. His physical wounds are nothing compared to the emotional and spiritual ones, and that only makes me more determined to keep us both above water.
“It won’t,” I reply confidently, using all of my strength to protect his sanity. “I know you’ll do everything in your power to make sure of that, but if you hand over DH, you'll hate yourself. It’d be like handing over a part ofyou. It’s been a bad twenty-four hours; you need to take some time to think it over before you do something rash. Just go back to sleep, baby. You need to rest.”
“I don’t need rest, I just need you.” He buries his face again, and inhales deeply. His devotion to me is something I’ll never get used to—a monument to our connection that can never be torn down. I know that if I just lie here, he’ll eventually fall back asleep, but for now he continues to engulf me with every one of his senses. He inhales deeply each time, absorbing my scent like it’s his lifeline, and not the hospital around us. His lips continuously press soft kisses to the areas he can easily reach, like my hair, forehead, and nose. Even his hands carefully wander, tracing the dips and curves of my body until it comes to rest on my lower stomach. “You must have been so scared. I'm so sorry…”
“We’re fine now, baby. That’s all I'm going to focus on. Okay? Keeping you alive and growing our baby, that’s all I want to think about.” I caress his chest delicately, feeling the battered skin beneath as if it matches my own. He nods again and allows his lips to linger on my forehead.
“Okay,” he whispers, but tenses as we hear shuffling by the door. His immediate reaction is to pull himself up, letting his protective instincts take over, but I pull him back down when we see a younger female doctor and a sweet looking female nurse walk in, wheeling in a screen and some other equipment.
“We thought we heard talking in here. How are you two feeling?” the nurse asks. Her voice is soft, and she has a genuine smile that tells me she’sgood with her patients. It automatically puts my mind at ease, while it takes Damien a moment to unwind.
“We’ve been better.” I chuckle somewhat, hoping an easy atmosphere will relax him.
“I can imagine,” the doctor replies, grinning widely. “I'm Dr. Emily Jennings, the Head of Obstetrics and Gynecology here at University Hospital.” She reaches out her hand and we shake it respectfully, Damien first, of course. “Normally you would see someone much lower on the totem pole than me, so don’t be intimidated, but your fiery nurse-friend insisted that only I oversee your prenatal care while you're here.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. First, the plastic surgeon, who I’m sure was also a hot shot here, and now the head of a whole department? I appreciate the concern, but I can only imagine the fit she threw until she spoke to them.
“Yeah, she can be a little demanding. I'm sorry,” I apologize, and the doctor just swats her hand, as if my bitchy best friend was something she encountered every day.
“Oh, don’t be. I love it. You've got a good village. You'll be needing that in about thirty-two weeks.”
My eyes widen, because the time she’s suggesting is surprising. I knew the possibility of being that far along already, but I just didn’t think I would be.
“So, she’s eight weeks along?” Damien asks as his hold on me tightens a little.
“Give or take a few days, yes, since we don’t have a clear answer on what day you conceived, but scans and blood work confirm the timeline. We submitted the testing the moment you came in, and we took a sample again about an hour ago. Your numbers are still climbing at a normal rate, which is fantastic. My initial concern was when your friend explained the nature of your disappearance, but on your initial examination there was no evidence of damage, or signs of trauma, to either the baby, your cervix, or your uterine wall. Which is what we want. Now, the next conversation we need to have is going to be rather hard, and I wanted to ask if you’d like to have this conversation in private. We can wheel you into a different room if necessary.” She looks directly at me when she asks, and the thought of being alone for whatever she’s about to say next terrifies me, but a part of me wonders if it’s better for Damien’s well-being. She then turns to Damien with soft features. “No offense, Mr. Hartley.”
“None taken. Whatever she needs,” he answers immediately, never hesitating to put my needs first.
“No, it’s okay. He can stay.”
She nods to me tenderly. Her voice and her movements don’t sound or appear rushed, and while this is obviously important, she doesn’t sound harsh or judgmental. Clearly, she’s a good doctor and knows how to keep her patients calm, which I deeply appreciate right now.
The rest of the conversation starts off light, but then immediately turns sour, making my body ice cold. She explains that while everything looked good yesterday, that because of the stress and strain on my body, that there’s a chance I could still lose the baby. When the wordmiscarryflies out of her mouth in such a calm manner, I almost choke, but instead I freeze, and the rest of her words become muffled. Her voice fights through the fog, and she reassures us that they will keep me until she’s confident in my recovery, and that while she doesn’t see that harsh outcome, that it’s still a possibility.
Just when I don’t think a worse conversation could come up, the STI conversation comes to light. One I’ve had twice before but now carries double the weight. It’s not just me I have to worry about, and now there’s a tiny life that could be ruined. The initial tests came back negative, which I know is a positive I should focus on, but all I can think about is the next three tests, spread weeks apart.My attacker, as Dr. Jennings calls him, could have anything. A disgusting, vile, piece of shit like that probably has a thousand things wrong with him, and of course, that could be one of them.
I’m pretty sure Damien stopped breathing a few minutes ago, his fear is just as crippling as mine, and even though he’s just as terrified, I know he’s listening to every syllable that slips from her lips. His hold on me doesn’t waver, and his hands caress me gently to attempt to keep me calm, one raking through my hair and the other on my lower stomach. If faith alone could heal me, then his hands would certainly do the trick, but unfortunately, that’s not how this works.
The pain is too present now. All of it. The mental, physical, and certainly the emotional ache is racing to the surface, and I’m just trying to keep it together. Dr. Jennings, while having to inform us, insists that remaining as calm as possible is best for us. She reassures us that right now we’re in the best place we can be for our situation, and that they’ll do everything they can to support the pregnancy—which actually makes me feel a little better, but I’m not sure how I’ll feel once we leave.
A part of me doesn’t want to move. I don’t want to get up, walk around, or try to get back to a normal life, terrified that if I move the wrong way I could hurt the baby. Every physical ache is a reminder that even though we just went through hell and survived, once again, that things can always get worse.
I must zone out somewhere in the conversation, because the only thing that truly brings my attention back to the moment is when the doctor wheels the screen over to the bedside, instructing me to turn on my back. Even with as injured as he is, Damien helps me but keeps his arm underneath my head to support it. I feel like an infant myself with the soreness in my neck, but I know that it will heal with time.
Scars are the only things that don’t.
Dr. Jennings helps me pull my hospital gown upward but is careful to keep my stomach mostly covered. While that’s a very professional and sweet gesture, I’m immediately sickened by my own body. Nothing but gauze dressings cover my torso, and they’re not big enough to cover the bruising. Blue, purple, and red splotch across my skin, and I can clearly see where I wasonly wiped down enough to be treated, because there are still streaks of red covering the areas that aren’t battered. Bile rises in the back of my throat, but then she does something I don’t expect.
