Page 4 of State of Mind

Scott had gone home triumphant, and Wilder had gone home an island.

In the end, he was both right and wrong.

In the aftermath, Wilder didn’t remember much about the night Scott had almost killed him. He knew there was a fight, and he knew there was something cold and vicious in the way Scott looked at him.

After that, there was pain.

He woke up on the little triage bed in the ER. His eyes felt heavy, like they were coated with sleep, and there was a funny, heavy, buzzing sensation in his ears. He knew he should be hearing the beeping from the monitors that were strapped to his body—just like he knew there should be pain from the places on his arms and thigh wrapped tight with gauze—but everything was just absent.

“Mr. Torres, I see you’re with us now.”

Wilder heard him, but only just, like the man was speaking under water. “I…there’s something wrong.” His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

The doctor gave him a sympathetic look as he stared at the chart. “How much do you remember, Mr. Torres?”

He swallowed again, and his tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth. It took him a moment to pry it away, and he coughed. The sound was heavy, muffled in his ears, and he wondered what the hell actually happened. “I was home with my boyfriend…and he…” His throat went thick with unshed tears, and he turned his face away. “What’s wrong with me? What happened?”

“Well, for one, you had a nasty blow to your head, Mr. Torres. It resulted in a mild concussion.”

At least that made sense. He nodded, and then the world swam, and he panicked, grabbing the handle on the bed like he might topple over as the room turned upside down. “I’m so dizzy, and I feel…I can’t…hear well.”

“Part of it is the concussion, but part of it isn’t,” the doctor said. “We did a CT scan and found some nerve damage in your ears. Have you been experiencing vertigo lately?”

“A few years now,” Wilder admitted. He swallowed a couple times, like it might clear things up, but nothing happened. “Did I fall?”

The doctor pulled a face, and though Wilder couldn’t hear it right then, he imagined the man hummed. “I’m afraid not.” The doctor turned his head sharply like he heard something, then his shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “There’s an officer outside who would like to speak with you about last night.”

Wilder felt panic rippling through his body. “What? Why?”

“You were stabbed.” The doctor’s tone was firm, matter-of-fact, rising above the humming buzz in his ears. “Your neighbors found you in the hallway. You have six stab wounds and a concussion, Mr. Torres. You nearly bled to death.”

He shivered once, then twice, then suddenly it was like he’d been plunged into icy water. The room went foggy, he lost his breath, and the rest of his hearing faded out. He didn’t come to until he was being wrapped in a heated blanket and a straw pushed through his lips, and even then, it still felt like he was gasping for air.

Greedily, he drank cool gulps that soothed the ache in his throat, and he clutched at the blanket with trembling fingers. Sound came back, in fits and bursts until it settled into that weird, underwater fog from before.

A nurse was speaking, but her voice was too soft. It was a low hum of syllables and tones, but no definition. Still, it was soothing, and he let her push him back and prop up the bed, so he was halfway to sitting, and he felt a bit more like himself after that.

He could feel the wounds now, though, and the throbbing at the back of his skull. He rubbed it with careful fingers, then stretched his arm to see where the gauze covered at least a foot of open flesh. His arm ached, his skin felt tugged and stitched tight, and he knew without a doubt he wasn’t getting away without scars.

“How?” he whispered.

The doctor looked up. “The police will have more details than I do. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it so bluntly. You went into mild shock. Just let me know when you feel ready to talk to them.”

Wilder licked his lips, his tongue still a little too dry, and he swore for a second he tasted blood. He wondered how long he’d been in there, how long he’d been out. He wanted to know how his neighbors found him, and if it was Scott who left him there to…

But of course he had.

“I think I’m ready,” he said, forcing the words past his lips. “I need to get this over with.”

The doctor raised a brow. “Are you sure? Mr. Torres, I understand that this is a difficult situation, but you have every right to take a moment.”

Wilder shook his head, then fought off another wave of vertigo. “I need to…I need to know.”

The doctor gave him a scrutinizing look, then turned on his heel and walked out, pushing the curtain behind him like a billowing cape. It settled, and the nurse fussed with his machines and said more words that he couldn’t understand. It was easier to ignore her, to close his eyes and attempt to remember what the hell happened that night, because although he knew Scott was capable of terrible things, something in him hadn’t expected to end up here.

There wasn’t much though, just images, feelings. He remembered yelling at him, saying he wanted it to be over. He remembered Scott’s furious brows and his fingers reaching for him. He didn’t remember the knife, though, or the blow to his head. It was like a black, empty hole existed where the pain began.

An officer entered a moment later—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown skin, full lips, and soft brown eyes. He approached the bed but didn’t get too close, and his voice was a low rumble in his chest. “I’m Officer Daniels. Are you okay to talk?”

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