Starting Over Anderson || ✔

Twenty-seven: Kill or be Killed

It seems to happen to me a lot, near death experiences. If I'm not trying to kill myself, something - or someone - will do it for me.

Well at least I'm hard to kill. Like grass. I remember an old Chinese saying about how wild fire might destroy its shoot, but one can never truly take out its roots. It'll just grow back up after the fire. Though I can't remember if it's weeds they talk about or grass. Either way, they're hard to kill, like me.

That's the first thing that comes to mind when I regain solid consciousness, not like the last time when I can't even be sure if it's real or a dream. I know I'm not dead and haven't actually gone to heaven because I recognize the smell of anesthetics and drugs that hospitals usually have. Opening one eye after another, I take in the whitewashed walls of my ward, groaning internally at the prospect of having to stay in a hospital for god knows how long, again. I've had enough of hospitals to last me ten lifetimes.

I'm dressed in a white flowing dress that reaches just over my knees, the one that you always see hospital patients wearing. I have an inhaler over my face, to make sure that I'm breathing properly. IV drips are, once again, connected to my body, sending me a steady stream of liquid nutrition (and probably painkillers) as I hadn't been able to eat. Both my legs are in a cast, and I feel very mummified with the bandages all over my body. And then I remember that I almost fell to my death so the cast and bandages are very much necessary. Not to mention the bullet in my shoulder. I try moving the left side of my torso for good measure, but it hurts too much I give up. Judging by the condition of my legs, it seems like I wouldn't be doing much walking anytime soon. Just great.

It is then that I notice the mop of jet black hair on my right, my good side. Aaron. He's asleep. I move my hand, with much difficulty, to poke his cheek. My hand feels like lead. In fact, my whole body feels like lead.

Aaron jumps up, wide eyed. "Princess!" he exclaims, relief flooding his features. "Thank God you're awake!" He hugs me gingerly, as if I'm made of glass and would break if he applies any pressure. "I thought I'd lose you, Princess. You have no idea how scared I was. Please don't ever put me through that ever again, please!"

"Quit worrying," I croak, feeling like I'm shoving a knife down my throat. "I'm fine."

"Oh crap. Here, have some water." He hands me a mug from the bedside table.

I take a small sip - lukewarm. I hadn't even known how thirsty I am until I take that first swig. Which reminds me, "How long have I been out?"

Aaron holds up four fingers.

"Four days?!" It would've come out as a shriek if my throat doesn't hurt so much. Now, it just sounds like a squeak.

Aaron shakes his head, long hair falling into his eyes. "Try weeks."

"Four weeks!" I nearly faint at this. "I can't believe I missed Spring Dance. Noah would be so disappointed."

Aaron doesn't say anything to this. He only looks at me intensely, like he knows something I don't. My stomach lurches, remembering the more pressing matters at hand. But I don't get to ask him just yet as a pair of dark haired doctor swoops in to take my reading.

"Vitals looking good," doc number one states, reading off the charts. "I'm impressed."

Doc number two nods in agreement. "We'll reduce your morphine intake and prescribe you with some other medication now that you're awake, is that okay?"

"That would be fine," Aaron replies for me. "Thank you, Doctor Lee. You too, Doctor Ash."

They nod in acknowledgement, informing that they'd get back to me soon, and swoop back out, white lab coat swishing behind them. As soon as Aaron and I have our privacy back, I grind him for answers.