Page 15 of Flyboy's Nightingale
“Are you okay?” Her concerned voice slides over me, easing all the anxiousness that settled over me the moment she stormed out of this very room pissed as hell yesterday.
I swallow hard past the lump that’s settled in my esophagus, my throat is still unbelievably sore from being on the ventilator for as long as I was. “I’m doing okay, just being chased by the hounds of my past as they nip at my heels.”
“Those hounds can be persistent and tiresome.” The sadness in her eyes pulls at my heartstrings as she commiserates with me—it’s not something I like that we have in common.
I just want to reach into her soul and save her from those Hellhounds and make it so she never has to run from them and hide in the dark again. At the same time, I want to lead the charge for them. If it wasn’t for her, and the pull that she has over me, I wouldn’t be laying in this god-forsaken bed right now and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. I’d have never left Razor’s reception to go to the hospital, but I had the compulsionto go after her. Now, I’m stuck in this bed, immobile, and unable to do a mundane thing such as take a piss on my own.
Still, when I look at her and catch a glimpse of those sad eyes, I want to reach out and show her what it’s like to feel protected and not be afraid of her own shadow. I want to give her the things I never, not one time believed I would ever be capable of having… a home with a white picket fence, a wife to call my own, and kids that were the perfect blend of her and me. These three things weren’t something I could have imagined having or even wanting, but that vison changed and suddenly, I wanted these things as long as I had them with her.
In the past, I was known to love the ladies and what they had to offer a man like me. I’ve never once lied or cheated in the past, and always made sure that anyone that I was involved with knew what the situation was beforehand. No strings and no commitments whatsoever.
Which is why I knew that Riley was never going to be the woman to be in that kind of situation. She wants the promises, the husband, the kids. She is not, and never will be, the kind of woman who will let me jump in and out of her bed like a thief in the night. She’s not one that you mess with, break your word to, and come and go as you please. So we played this push and pull game, never crossing the line. I simply watch her as she makes her way around the bed to my right side, looking at my mangled arm, examining it. Watching her in her element is just as awe-inspiring as it was the first night I saw her.
“What’ve the doctors said?” she asks, her hands hovering just above the fixation devices.
“They haven’t really said anything other than telling me that right now, we need to focus on my brain swelling coming down more and getting to the point where I’m strong enough to get out of the bed on my own. When I finally get to the point where I’m moving and ambulating without needing another person toassist me, we’ll talk about what’s going to happen with my leg and hand.” The frustration I’ve been feeling brings the anger roaring back to life. I mean, fuck, this is all on her.
“Sounds about right. Have you tried lifting with your upper body and sitting up on your own? Have you been doing the exercises the physical therapist wrote down for you to practice to strengthen your muscles?” she queries, looking up at my face with such softness and caring they boil over onto her facial features.
“What the fuck is that going to help? It’s not going to change that I almost lost my damn leg and arm. It’s not going to change the fact that I am a motherfucking invalid. I mean, I can’t even take a fucking piss on my own! What are some no good, stupid ass exercises going to do when it comes to helping with my recovery? Damn, I truly wonder where you got your nursing degree from.” Once again, the hate rolling off my tongue is like a sharpened blade meant for stabbing someone, so they hurt the same way as I am.
“Well, I see that you’ve still decided to be a complete fucking jackass. On that note, I’m going to leave you in the very capable hands of Nurse Bailey and I’m going to go home. I donotdeserve, nor will tolerate being treated this way.” The shattered look in her eyes returns the blade I threw at her like a boomerang, lodging itself in my chest. “Truly, you have the most amazing life, Flyboy. Maybe next time, things will be different.” Riley leans in and kisses my cheek, blowing me away with her whispered words. “You’re an amazing man. Don’t forget that this is just a moment in time, and it too will pass and you’ll be able to move on. You get to be the one who decides if you let the anger lead you down a darkened path or allow forgiveness and happiness to enter your heart and set you free.” She kisses me once again, and turns, strutting out the door without a backward glance.
I stare at the last spot I saw her for a long moment after the door shuts behind her. I let her words play out in my head like a loop stuck on repeat, her solemn look and sad tone reverberate through my thoughts… haunting me over and over again.
What does that even mean to me? Is what she said really what's going on here?
Why did that feel like the last time that I would ever see her?
Nurse Beverly clicks her tongue as she changes my medicine and my catheter bag. “Excuse my language, but you’ve really fucked up this time, young man.”
“I’m starting to see that.” I sigh, flopping back onto the pillow.
My head is racing at this point. I don't know what I’m going to do, or how I’m going to fix it. I’ve royally fucked things up with her this time. I’m not sure there’s any coming back from how far I’ve managed to shove her away. Her words come back to me like a fist thrown by Razor, straight to the temple. I’ve been doing exactly what she accused me of. My anger has been riding me like a little bitch, and I’ve allowed it to overcome me. It’s time to unbury my head from my own ass, accept what is, and start dealing with this shit head on.
The door opens, and for just the smallest of moments, I think it could be Riley. When I see that it’s one of the brothers, the minimal amount of hope that was starting to grow, dies a miserable death in an instant. Closing my eyes, I listen to everyone move around me, pretending to sleep—not yet ready to deal with anyone and their bullshit. I don’t know how long I lay listening to everyone, as they continue to talk around me, lost in my own pitiful thoughts.
“Well, hey there, doc,” Pretty Boy drawls.
I open my eyes to see my attending Doctor, and another man standing there beside him adorned in their long, white coats.They murmur between each other, looking at something on their iPads before addressing me.
“How’re you feeling, Mr. Holloway?” the new doctor asks.
“Like I was run over by a car.” I chuckle, shrugging my left shoulder at my pun.
“Well, I wonder why that would be?” He looks at me, smirking, before acting surprised by something he sees in my chart. “That would be a correct assessment because you were actually hit by a car, meaning your words are right on the target as to how you should be feeling.”
I don’t even try and stop the bark of laughter that escapes my lips, announcing, “Good to know that I’m exactly where I should be. Let’s talk about when I’m going to get the hell out of this not-so-great place, and instead, discuss when I will be allowed to head home.”
My attending physician steps in then, telling me, “We’ll keep you here for about three more weeks. We’re watching all your vitals to make sure they don’t either drop or skyrocket, and with Dr. Noble here, we will be starting your physical therapy tomorrow as long as you’re feeling up for it.”
“If we start physical therapy tomorrow, does that mean I can get out of here sooner rather than later?” I ask, getting excited at the prospect of getting out as soon as possible.
“That’s not a guarantee. To be honest, even after the three weeks, you’ll most likely need to go into a live-in rehabilitation center for a few weeks as you continue to mend,” Dr. Noble states, giving me a pointed look.
“No, absolutely not. When I get out of here, I’m going home. That’s not up for negotiation,” I state, my tone set firmly… this isn’t an argument they’re going to win.
I’m over fucking hospitals—of any kind. Maybe that’s not fair considering I’ve been in a coma for most of my stay, but comeon, what can they do in a rehab facility that I can’t do at the clubhouse?
