Page 38 of Wounded King
There will be nothing left to bury.
Nobody left to mourn.
Two days later…
"Ah, no, no, no," I protest as I enter Marcello's office in his penthouse the next day. "You have not been cleared for work yet."
He looks up from a stack of papers on his desk. "Good morning to you, too, Violet."
An edge to the set of his lips tells me that my patient has reached thecrankyphase of his recovery.
"You're still on bedrest as far as I know," I move to the desk, putting my hands on the edge.
"One call will change that," he declares arrogantly.
"You might be able to intimidate your doctors, Marcello, but that won't change the fact that your body still needs rest," I explain patiently.
It's only been two days since my first day at this new job, and with each passing day, it's gotten more and more difficult to keep my patient in bed.My patient, that's the mantra I've been repeating to myself every hour since I accepted this torturous job.
"Just change the bandages," he orders.
"Not here," I stand my ground.
"Fine!" He throws the papers on the desk and rises, a bit too suddenly. He sways for a moment, and I rush to his side, putting my arm around his waist to support him.
"I can stand on my own," he snarls.
"I'm sure you can," I soothe, "but I wouldn't be doing my job if I weren't right here."
He glares down at me, seeing through my bullshit, contrary to any other patient I've used it on over my career. I've taken many nursing and even some psychology classes focused on the convalescence of patients, but none have given me any wisdom on how to deal with a man who thinks himself physically fit enough to enter a bullfight after being shot at a few weeks before.
"Your brain is still adapting," I try.
"My brain is just fine," He counters.
"Alright. Come on, let's get into your bedroom and change the bandages. Once I'm gone, you can do all the idiotic things you want to do."
"Idiotic things?" He challenges.
"Yeah, like working," I say to lighten the mood.
He grabs his crutches and starts to move in the right direction. Unfortunately, he miscalculates the turn, and the right crutch gets caught by the side of his desk. With a sudden bout of fury, he throws it across the room. It hits a glass cabinet filled with books and shatters the pane.
"I hate these fucking things," He yells and throws the other.
Luciano sticks his head in, a gun in his right hand, giving me a near heart attack—I'm still not used to seeing guns, and I probably never will be. He takes one look at Marcello and me and retreats.Coward.
"Feel better?" I ask Marcello, keeping my arms up just in case he loses his balance.
He glares at me. "You act like you would be able to catch me."
"Try me," I dare him.
We hold a silent glare off.
I take his arm and place it over my shoulder, then put an arm around his waist, hooking my hand into his belt for leverage. He overexaggerates his weight, leaning harder on me than he needs to, set on proving his point. But I'm equally set on proving to him that Icanbear his weight.
"You're stronger than you look," he remarks when we make it to the bed, where he sits down on the edge, soaked in sweat.
