Page 55 of The Shape of my Scar
On the second day, just when hope had begun to flicker at the edges, everything unravelled. Faolan spiked a fever, and the monitors told a story no one wanted to hear. Words like septicaemia and multiorgan failure hung in the air, and by nightfall, the surgical team had taken her back to the theatre. The rib fractures had to be stabilized, and they had to explore for a collection in the chest, which they called it an empyema.
The mood in the waiting room turned brittle. Tempers flared. There were arguments over nothing, over coffee orders, over how loud someone was breathing, over a word or a phrase spoken in the wrong tone.
At one point, Maro squared up to Thane, eyes blazing, and Zel had to physically step between them. Lirian walked out and didn’t come back for nearly six hours.
But Thane never left.
On the fourth day, things shifted again. Her vitals stabilized and then improved.
“She’s doing better,” the doctor had said cautiously. “We’re trailing her off the ventilator intermittently. If things continue, she might not need a trach after all.”
It was a victory they all clung to.
Later that afternoon, the door to the waiting area pushed open again, and a young woman in mint-green scrubs walked in, her hair in a tight ponytail and a clipboard clutched to her chest. She looked barely old enough to vote, let alone deliver life-altering news.
“I’m the anaesthetist looking after Faolan,” she said. “She’s awake.”
The silence that followed was thunderous.
“She’s still on the ventilator, but we assessed her mental status. There are no signs of brain damage. She’s aware, following commands. We’re going to keep her in critical care for a few more days, then hopefully, step her down.”
Callum blinked. “When can we see her?”
The child-doctor smiled. “Now, if you want.”
***
Faolan
She floated at the edge of something heavy.
A fog, thick and warm, pressing down on her bones.
She dreamt—if it could be called dreaming—of Thane. Of him leaving her to burn. She followed, stumbling barefoot, calling his name. He never turned back.
She drifted between shadows.
Not quite awake and not fully asleep. Time didn’t behave the way it should. Minutes stretched like hours, and distorted faces swam through the fog. She did not know what was real.
Someone cried in the distance. Then there was laughter, followed by the sound of a machine screaming.
She tried to move but nothing obeyed.
Sometimes the fog thinned, and she heard voices she didn’t know. Other times, it thickened until even her own name sounded foreign, like someone else’s story.
Her body felt heavy, like someone had filled her veins with concrete. Pain bloomed in her chest every time she breathed,and when the fog lifted enough, she understood why. A crushing pain, sharp and deep, wrapped around her ribs and wouldn’t let go.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream.
There were moments when she thought she might be dead.
Then came the dream.
In a clearing, he stood waiting…
Thane
He raised a gun to her head and gave her the smile which told her he despised her.
