Page 4 of Flyboy's Nightingale
But fuck, right now, waking up, I feel as if I’ve been overindulging on some whiskey and boozing away on a five-day bender.
Well, time to get the lead out of my ass, and get a move on with starting my day.
I reach up to wipe the crust from sleep away from my eyes. Then pause, wondering why I can’t move my arm. What the fuck? Panic races through my veins like a racehorse let loose from the gates. I let my anxiety run free for another second before calling on my military training, using my breathingexercise to calm down my rapidly beating heart, and focus on the task at hand. It takes longer than I would ever admit to gain control.
That’s when the beeping of a machine and an antiseptic smell hits me.
The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, and the scent of a hospital, wrap around me like an old friend. Motherfucker, this can’t be good, not at all. First, I feel as if I’ve been run the fuck over by a big rig. Secondly, I can’t move my fucking arm. Thirdly, I’m in the goddamn hospital, and it’s not for a fucking job.
I inhale deeply, calming my racing heart—making it so that I can think a little clearer before opening my eyes. When I finally clear the cobwebs from my vision, I look around the room, taking everything in. The information on the walls tells me that I am indeed at the hospital where I work. All the drawings, get well notes, and flowers scattered around the room tells me that I’ve been here longer than what feels possible.
What the holy hell is going on? Why the hell can I not move my arm or leg? I need answers, and I need them right the fuck now. The situation I’ve woken up to renders me incapable of slicing through my thoughts and putting them in a tangible order. I’m essentially unable to continue calming myself as prior training has taught me to do. The machines around me start going off at a blaring pitch as panic washes over me. I close my eyes, praying for the first time in eons that I can fucking remember, for this to all be a nightmare and not my reality.
“Okay, asshole, do your body check,” I mumble underneath my frantic breath. I wiggle the toes on my left foot, rotate that foot at the ankle, and strain from the effort to bend my knee. It moves a smidgeon, but not enough for my liking.
My right side, on the other hand, is not so great. I can move my toes, but that is about all for my right leg. I look down, seeing a lump under the blanket. Fucking hell, that’s nota good sign. Looking over at my right arm, I see it also is a limp mass as well. Trying to move the fingers on my right hand seems an impossible feat. All I feel is some pulling and a shit ton of agonizing pain. I feel metal bracing digging into my side, somehow instinctively knowing this hand is going to be a nasty end result, and I’ll be lucky to use it ever again.
I need those fucking answers, and I need them right the fucknow.
I use the hand that doesn’t feel like it’s been crushed to oblivion, and reach around, searching for a call button. I am beyond thankful when I find the little remote hanging over my bed railing, just as I go to press the little red button, the door flies open, with it brings uncontrollable anxiety. Uneasiness races up and down my spine, bumps raise on my flesh, my fight or flight instincts kick into high gear, only I have no weapons nor a way to protect myself. It doesn't help that I have no idea if an enemy is encroaching upon me as the door continues to creak open.
I lay there, sweat pouring down my temples, not uttering a word, only waiting to see what's fixing to happen next.
“You could wake up anytime now, asshole!” Duck yells as he saunters into the room.
“Duck, you really think that’s what he needs right now?” Lil’ Red chastises as she comes through on his heels, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers.
“Normal is what he needs, and I’ve always called him an asshole. So, yes, Red, that is exactly what he needs to hear,” he retorts back, shaking his head at her.
I don’t say anything, keeping my lips sealed. I continue to lay there, listening, and watching my brother banter back and forth with his woman whose eyes and tone are full of compassion, yet laced with a sassy candor. I clear my throat to speak, and the room stills, everyone stops talking. Hell, at this point, I thinkthey’ve even stopped breathing. I chuckle quietly, seeing Duck for the first time, I think, ever stunned to silence. Clearing the clog in my throat again, trying to speak, causes me to cough and groan.
“Please, tell me you all see him looking at us?” Duck implores, pointing at me with wide, pessimistic eyes.
“I’ll get the nurse,” Lil’ Red whispers, her eyes wide, and red-rimmed. There’s a glossy sheen coating the irises, you can see the struggle as they fight to break free from the shackling confinement of her tear ducts.
“Fuck, man-I-you’re fucking awake. Damn, say something, anything." The fear and stress in my brother's voice has me glaring, and trying again to clear my throat so I can speak through the dryness.
“Whaaa—.” Is all I get out since my throat feels as if it’s been towed through the Mojave Desert.
“Finally, you asshole. You’re awake! I can’t fucking believe it. You, new guy, call Prez and let him know,” Duck issues the command, pointing and snapping at the guy standing sentry in the corner.
I open my mouth, trying to speak, only once more, nothing comes out of my parched throat. The door bashes open with gusto, and in walks an older nurse, and Lil’ Red is solidly on her heels. The nurse looks up from the tablet balanced in her hand, grinning down at me as she sets about checking all my intravenous lines.
“Well, well, look who has finally decided to wake up. Can you tell me what your name is?” the nurse inquires.
Briefly, I open my mouth to give talking another shot, but instead of words expelling from my lips, I hack and cough as I try to speak, sounding as if I’ve been gargling rocks, causing me to groan out in excruciating frustration, and wincing from the pain… my throat feels as if it’s been coated with shardsof splintered glass when I try to verbalize my thoughts or ask the endless questions rummaging through my mind. I need to know what landed me here, what my prognosis is, and I’m ready to begin the process of getting my ass out of here and back to the clubhouse. The nurse picks up a plastic tumbler off the table beside me, holding it outward, and bends the straw to my waiting mouth.
“Take a drink. We’ll try answering the questions you have after that,” she firmly dictates.
I take a long, drawn-out pull on the straw placed at my lips. The cold water is like a cold sliver of heaven as it shimmies and slides down my sore, scratchy throat. After a few quick swallows, she pulls the cup away, making me wish the straw was permanently glued to the skin of my lips. Umm, no, I want the fucking water to quench my thirst.
“More,” I order, my chest rumbling.
“It’s been too long. Too much, and it will all be coming right back up, no one wants that,” the nurse says. “Now, can you tell me what your name is?”
“Flyboy. Can I have more water now?” I ask, my tone coming out as snappy and condescending. My patience with her is waning, I’m not in the mood for inconsequential or stupid questions.
“Umm. Not what I had in mind,” she states, looking concerned.
