Page 18 of Beautiful Beast

“Jesus.”

He tells me about the horrible disease silently ravaging his body while I listen and try to ignore the painful, aching burning in my eyes and throat.

Without Uncle Dennis, I’ll be rudderless in this world. And while I’m way past the point of needing a reliable adult in my life to guide me, I still want to have him around for a lot more years than we’re being given.

But this situation isn’t about me.

Now isn’t the time for my grief.

“Saying ‘I’m sorry’ sounds stupid and cliché. But I don’t know what else to say. Even with all of our assets, we still can’t fix it. We can’t save you.”

Money has knocked over a lot of barriers in my life and given me opportunities that I never would have otherwise had. But there are certain things it can’t fix and this illness is one problem that doesn’t care how much money we throw at it or what our last name is.

And, fuck, it sucks to have every resource in the world available to you and it’s still not enough.

“None of this should be happening to you,” I say fiercely. “You’re a good man. The best one I know. My father dies peacefully in his sleep, and you get dealt these cards? Bullshit.”

“The only thing that matters is your health. That’s why I stay fit, why I eat well, and why I regularly have consultations with top doctors, even before getting sick,” Uncle Dennis says, staring out at the skyline. “Life sure as hell isn’t anywhere close to being fair. Like I’ve always said, money can’t buy health or happiness.”

I can’t even imagine the thoughts that must race through your head when you know that your time on earth is almost up. Waking up every day and living under the weight of that morbid knowledge must be crushing and impossible to bear.

And yet you have no choice but to keep going until you can’t.

“I agree about the health part, but I’m pretty happy in the penthouse,” I quip.

Uncle Dennis rolls his eyes, and it makes me smile that we can still have our usual interactions amidst the chaotic landscape our lives are now set on.

“Adam, please tell me what happened to your face,” he insists softly.

Fuck.

“A bomb.”

“A bomb?” he repeats.

It all plays out in my mind through a high-definition lens that I can’t stop looking through no matter how hard I try.

My ears ringing from the loudest explosions I’ve ever been near, making me wonder if I’d ever hear again.

Zero gravity as my body went flying like a ragdoll, fear clutching me in a death grip while almost-certain death stared me in the face.

After I landed, wishing that I did die so the pain would stop and I wouldn’t have to catalog the host of injuries waiting for me.

Mercifully blacking out and having no memory of Briggs carrying me out of the slum, desperate to save my life when it would have been easier and safer to leave me behind.

Field dressings were necessary and the only option, but they sure as shit don’t look pretty. In dire circumstances, stemming the blood loss and reducing the risk of infection are the top priorities, not the aftermath or how it’s going to heal.

And, in this case, I’m not sure that I will ever be whole again.

But I can’t get many words out to explain the magnitude of what happened to me.

“In Syria… The tertiary impact of a bomb threw me against a stone wall. Shrapnel was flying everywhere. My entire body is battered, bruised, and broken, but my face is harder to hide than the rest of my injuries.”

Broken ribs make every breath hurt.

Bruises that are so dark they look painted on.

Soft tissue damage that has my entire body in aching, stiff agony.

---