Page 16 of Stand: Part One
I scowled. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re unrivaled, Jaden. Unmatched in every way. This”—he gestured to the bed—“means nothing. Because we both know it’s not going to stop you. It might slow you down for a minute, but it won’t hold forever. I’ve never seen someone come back from the dead as often as you have. And you’re always stronger for it every single time. So I know this will be nothing more than another temporary nuisance for you to thoroughly annihilate.”
My gaze sharpened at his appeasement, the scowl on my face deepening from the odd revelation of what I assumed was some fucked-up form of flattery. Because the only reason I was like this was because of all the shit he’d put me through over the years.
I was what he made me, and yet for some reason, he was giving me all the credit.
Grunting at Darren’s declaration of me, I crossed my arms and looked away from the intensity of his watchful eyes. I didn’t know how to take those kinds of “compliments” from him, especially while he stood there covered in the blood and guts of four dead men like some kind of modern-day Viking.
“So the next time you question your misfortunes, Jaden, remember what I told you.”
My gaze returned to his as I released a deep sigh of annoyance. I understood what he was saying.
I was built for endurance.
I couldn’t argue with that. After everything I’d been through, I was still here. I might not be technically standing, but I sure as fuck wasn’t dead yet.
Darren smirked. “Get some sleep, princess. Your morphine is about to get cut in half if it’s enabling you to still be this destructive three days after major surgery. The pain will help keep you still until you learn not to aggravate your injuries like I’m sure you just did after this little display.”
My jaw dropped in utter disbelief. No fucking way was he serious.
“You’re not serious,” I accused. But he was. Darren didn’t make empty promises.
“Enjoy the numb while you can, little girl. You’re in for a rough couple of weeks.”
Then he turned away and headed for the door, undeterred by the glass shattering under his boots. If I had just one more thing to throw at him, I would have chucked it right at the back of his head.
“How the fuck did you even get in here, anyway?” I shouted after him.
He chuckled softly, pushing the door open without another glance, leaving me alone to stew over it for the rest of the night. If I had known he was there the entire time, I would have waited until he was gone before destroying everything within reach.
Fine, keep your secrets, motherfucker.
And I’ll keep mine.
7
Recovery
Five weeks. Five long, slow, boring-as-fuck weeks of being trapped in this bed, buried down in this bunker of a hospital, unable to move barely an inch without disrupting the series of aches that plagued the lower half of my body.
True to his word, Darren had my morphine significantly decreased like the asshole he was, much to Sid’s disapproval. Sid did get him to change his mind after a few days when he couldn’t stand seeing me so damn miserable from the pain.
While it did keep me still like Darren had wanted, it also prevented me from eating or keeping anything down. So whatever meds Darren had ordered next were just as effective in keeping me still since they made me too damn tired to move. I went from torture victim one week to complete zombie the next.
Sid wasn’t kidding when he said I had a long road ahead of me, and it felt like I’d barely left the fucking station.
While the first week was the hardest, and the second week barely a memory, the third week gave boredom a whole new meaning. I tried to sleep, tried to rest as much as I could, preferring to walk in my dream world than lie practically paralyzed in my real one. But eventually, my body was done resting, and I had to face the boredom of reality and the bullet holes that burned through my pelvis.
I made the mistake of looking the first time the medical staff changed my dressings. And while the scar wasn’t as big as I thought it would be, it was still ugly. I didn’t want my body looking as battle worn as Darren’s, not needing the reminders of all the shit I’d lived through. Between the wolf bite on my forearm, the bullet graze on my other arm, and the fucking initials carved into my ass, I had enough physical manifestations of trauma.
Don’t even get me started on the tattoos on my wrists.
Being stuck in a sterile white room with no windows did wonders for my mental health, and my company wasn’t all that great either. Like usual, Clive and Owen were shit for conversation, and Carla never had anything interesting to say. The most I could use them for was to play euchre for a few hours of the day until they refused to play any longer.
Poor Camaro didn’t understand why I couldn’t play with her, why I wouldn’t get out of bed. She’d often put her paws up on the bed so I could scratch behind her ears and whine until someone finally told her to get down. I missed running with her at my side through the woods, trying my damnedest to outrun her, but she never gave an inch.
Eventually, I felt strong enough to play fetch with one of her toys, making a point to throw the ball directly at Clive’s head as often as I could. It was only fair I get some entertainment out of it too, especially since I still owed him and Owen payback for the bunny slipper prank.
