Take a Shot

Familial

"Five hells," I mumbled. There was just a little bit of pudding left in this cup, and I couldn't seem to get it on my spoon. I continued mumbling curses to myself as I kept scraping for the pudding. It almost seemed to dodge my spoon. It didn't want to be eaten. I didn't blame it.

That wasn't the problem, and I knew it, but it was funnier than the situation. I'd gotten abducted on a job recently - not altogether unusual - and tortured within an inch of my life - very unusual. Based on the assessment I'd received from our wonderful med staff, I was brought in barely conscious with an array of nasty cuts, a broken arm, a low-grade fever, and some brain damage which had thrown both my sense of balance and how well I could move even my non-broken arm straight into the toilet. Luckily, past hour five with the people who'd abducted me, I couldn't actually remember much.

Most importantly, in my opinion anyway, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of Em. I foggily remembered that she had rescued me, and I'd...collapsed into her arms and she somehow got us both back to safety. Everything from that point on was foggy and somewhat coherent. There were some parts in there that were probably a dream, and it all sort of mixed into the fantasies I was having while being tortured - awkward - of her coming to save me and whatnot. All I really remembered, to this point, was her wild head of green hair and the distinct feeling of comfort.

I shook my head. I had to focus on my pudding. Annae insisted that the more I practiced using my arms right, the better I would get. My right arm hurt like a motherfucker. But trying to eat with my left hand was way too much trouble, even though it wasn't slinged up. I didn't really want to keep fighting this pudding, but Greta said the more I focused, the easier focusing would get. I wasn't sure exactly what kind of brain damage I had gotten, but it was apparently...fixable, and for that I was glad.

The spoon slipped from my hand, and I cursed absently. It was hard to ignore how humiliating this felt. The healer I had at night told me everything was going to be more difficult for me now, even walking, which I'd discovered firsthand by accident when I thought I could get up and go to the bathroom as I usually did. Now I had a little buzzer on my bedside table and an exhausted voice in the back of my head wondering how Em normally got through this part.

"Damn it all," I mumbled. My head was starting to hurt. I set the pudding cup down on the bed in between my crossed legs with a sigh. Such a fucking hassle.

Knock, knock. "Hey, Matt? Are you awake?"

"I'm awake, Gordie." My door cracked open, and the blonde head of one of my friends popped in the door. She offered me a very fake smile, eyes purposefully not on my left arm, where I now had a weirdly-shaped design carved into me. Gordie eased herself in the door, casting a not-subtle glance at my pudding cup before looking back at my face. She left the door cracked as she walked over to my bedside, drawing a thermometer out of the front pocket of her healer smock thingy. I rolled my eyes but opened my mouth.

"Don't get sassy," Gordie admonished, sticking the thermometer in my mouth. I closed my mouth and leveled a bored look at her. She snickered, booping my nose. "I'm glad you're feeling good enough to be a bitch. You look just like Star."

The stick beeped after a moment and she took it from my mouth. I slowly crossed my arms, watching her face as she read the number. She nodded once with a smile and wiped it off on her smock before tucking it into the pocket she hadn't pulled it out of.

"Yeah? I'm sure Em recovers a lot faster than I have."

Gordie shrugged, sticking her hands in the pockets of her pants. "Never mind that. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Your fever is broken. Keep taking the pills morning and night until we test again at the end of the week. You're hydrating enough?"