Bloodlines and Bullets

eight

The weeks stretch on, each day blurring into the next within the sterile confines of the hospital room. Time loses its meaning as I lie here, trapped in a body that feels like it belongs to someone else. The pain of my injuries is a constant companion, reminding me of the chaos that led me to this point.

In the first week, my body is consumed by the need to heal. The broken ribs throb with every shallow breath, the surgical wound on my abdomen burns, and the knife cuts on my face are tender, still stitched and swollen. The nurses come in regularly, checking my vitals, changing the dressings on my wounds, and ensuring I'm receiving enough medication to dull the pain, though nothing seems to fully chase it away.

Each day, I notice small improvements. The sharp pain of the broken ribs lessens, morphing into a dull ache that feels like a victory. I start to engage in physical therapy, which is grueling and exhausting. A physical therapist comes to my room to help me move, urging me to sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

"Just a little further," she encourages, her tone patient. "You can do it."

But every inch feels like a mountain to climb. The ache in my side screams as I try to reposition myself, but I refuse to give in. I push through the discomfort, desperate to regain some sense of autonomy.

Dr. Mallard visits frequently, always maintaining his calm, analytical demeanor. His presence is oddly comforting, as he gently prods me with questions about my mental state. He seems genuinely interested in my thoughts, which I find disarming.

"How are you feeling today?" he asks, his pen poised over the clipboard.

"Like I'm in prison," I reply dryly, but the truth is that there's an underlying current of gratitude for the care I'm receiving. "I mean, physically."

He nods, his expression sympathetic. "That's understandable. Healing takes time. Your ribs will take about six weeks to fully mend, but you should start feeling better in about two weeks. The surgical site should start to heal as well, and the stitches will come out after a week."

I grimace, remembering the knife wound on my arm, the deep cut that feels like a reminder of my vulnerability. "What about this?" I ask, pointing to the angry red scar on my left arm.

"That will take a little longer - around three to four weeks. The pain should subside in the next few days, and you'll have some physical therapy for that too," he assures me.

By the end of the second week, I begin to feel more like myself. The sharp pain has faded into a dull ache, and I'm finally able to sit up for longer periods without feeling like I might pass out. I take small victories where I can, managing to shuffle a few steps down the hall with the help of a nurse. Each step is a monumental effort, and I feel the pressure of my injuries, but there's a newfound determination stirring within me.

"Look at you go," the nurse praises, her eyes bright with encouragement. "You'll be out of here before you know it."

But deep down, I know that's not true. Even if I physically heal, my mind is still caught in the web of Luciano's plans. Entering the third week, I am on the verge of being discharged, but Luciano's shadow looms larger. I overhear whispers from the nurses about my situation, and the tension in the air thickens. It's evident that I'm still under his thumb, even in this sanctuary of recovery.

Dr. Mallard's voice breaks through my reverie during one of our sessions. "You're healing remarkably well, but remember that the mind and body need time to adjust to trauma," he warns.

"What's next for me?" I ask, the question heavy on my tongue. "What happens when I leave here?"

He hesitates, the weight of his answer palpable. "Your future is still uncertain, but it's vital to focus on your recovery first. You'll need to attend follow-up appointments to monitor your healing, and then we can discuss your next steps."