Undercover Badge; Next Generation

Chapter twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

     The pounding in my head woke me up. The side of my face felt like it was on fire- the skin was hot and it was tender, and I was pretty sure it was swollen.

Maneuvering my body left me gritting my teeth so hard I heard my jaw bone grind and when my eyes started to water from the pain, I dug my teeth into my bottom lip and pressed my lashes shut as tight as they would go.

As I shifted my legs, my right knee cracked and sharp pain jutted through the joint, and when I moved my left leg, my left hip gave me much the same treatment.

Through my teeth I groaned and hissed and when I pressed my hands into the mattress to try push myself up, I bit my tongue so hard I could taste blood. I looked at my left hand. The palm was raw and had scabbed over the deep gouges, and across the back of the wrist I saw a deep purple bruise. My right hand's bandage was soaked through by blood that had long since dried and gone rust brown.

So I used my elbows to dig in and drag myself up to sitting. My muscles groaned and creaked and the stiffness made me want to whine like a kicked puppy. My left ribcage protested, and later, when I looked at it, I'd notice the dark, multicolored bruise and scrape that stretched across my lower three ribs. Slowly, I shifted my legs over the sides of the bed. My feet were dirty, black streaks across the soles peaking between my toes. Dirt was caked under my fingernails and in my hair and I could feel dry sweat sit uncomfortably on my skin.

Slowly I got up and limped my way to the bathroom to shower. Hot water hitting the damaged skin was much, much worse, but I tried not to think as I washed, again slowly. I emerged and tried to towel dry, though how slowly I moved meant half of the moisture was air dried.

Time to face the music.

The mirror was not complementary. Me left temple was swollen and bruised, a scarily deep purple dancing down my cheekbone and hairline. My eyes had bags under them, my skin pasty in pallor, my lips raw, looking chipped and cracked despite the shower, and my throat felt rough and catchy.

I looked worse than shit.

I pushed my right hand over my eyes and tried to understand what had happened. Matthew had tried to kill me, but hadn't. But he'd pointed a gun at my head. But he didn't kill me. He'd carried me home. Walked through the open front door. Put me on my bed. And walked out.

He didn't say anything after telling me to rest. He didn't say anything at all.

I walked out of the bathroom, and again, slowly, got dressed. My glasses weren't broken, but the plastic frame on the bottom left corner was chipped and the top left side held a gouge. My alarm clock told me that if I left immediately, I'd be only five minutes late for home room. The six messages and two missed calls told me Ingrid was worried. I was lucky, I supposed. My parents left the house before I woke up. His commute was half an hour each way and her mornings involved a hike and sunrise yoga.

I tried to cover the temple bruise with make up. It didn't work. I ended up having to scrub the skin clean, which was brutal. I decided today was a good day to let my long platinum tresses run wild and I hoped the curls would somewhat disguise it. It took me five minutes to wrap my rose thorn cut right hand with my damaged left. Then it took me another ten to wrap my bruised and scraped left with my bandaged right. I bandaged my twitchy knee and sprayed a medicinal agent on the bruised joint and did similar work on the left hip, which was colored a heinous patchwork of red and blue. Thusly held together by bandages, tape and various muscle sprays and antibacterial creams, I gently picked up my bag. I had put on my most worn, light blue skinny jeans that sat comfortably rather than tightly and a close fitting black tank top. A nondescript, thin black zip up hoodie over it I wore open and with the hood up. My black combat boots afforded me the most psychological support and so those were the ones I donned.