Can You Keep A Secret?

Chapter Nineteen

       

-Rye's POV-

            I was tired of being in the hospital. Being forced to stay in one place made me restless. It was explained to me that the bullet had shot through the very top of my shoulder – There was a little dent in it now. This accident would remain a part of me forever. I imagined what had happened to make me so lucky, that he didn't aim right, didn't hit me in the chest or my neck or my head – A shaking hand, the knowledge that it would be over soon? I would think that he'd tried to make his last shot count, but I wasn't about to regret that it hadn't.

            The cleaning of the wound was torturous. I couldn't help but scream at the intense pain it brought about – Like putting peroxide on a scrape, but times a thousand.  Nurses patted my hand and cooled my forehead with a wet cloth, explaining what was happening and how it would all be over soon. Black spots clouded my vision at times, but I kept myself awake.

            Throughout all the movies and shows I had watched, they always stressed the importance of staying awake, how you were more likely to lose the person if they drifted off. By the time they did the stitches, I was so amped up on pain meds that I didn't feel a thing – And now, here I was, all patches up, being forced to sit and wait while Blair filled out paperwork.

            I couldn't quite remember when he had arrived – I just knew that it was after I'd been drugged up to the high heavens. I wasn't bothered by it – I was glad he wasn't around for the part that came before it. I didn't need to be babied or fussed over, I wasn't the real victim him. For me, his shot had been poor. For others, not so much. People had died, others were in ICU right as of this moment, clinging onto their lives by a very small thread. And me? I hadn't even passed out.

            The only thing bothering me now was the smell of the hospital – It was some disturbing mixture of mustiness and antiseptic. I didn't belong here, in this place of people that were dying and in need of desperate attention.

            Blair peeked his head into the room, and I was more than glad to see him – Hopefully it meant we'd be getting out of here soon.

            "Hey, buddy," he said, coming all the way in. "How you holding up?"

            I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "I'm fine. Can we leave now?" Yes, other than the bullet wound in my right shoulder, I was fine and dandy.

            "I think so, if you're really feeling okay."

            "I am," I insisted. He turned around while I slipped off the embarrassing white hospital gown that had flowers on it and a revealing slip in the back, and smelled as if it hadn't been washed in ages. Could just be that they used a terrible laundry detergent, I didn't know. Slipping on my pants was easy enough, but putting on the shirt that Blair had grabbed from the gift shop – The one I'd been wearing was probably already sitting in a dumpster right now, long destroyed from the blood stains – proved to be more of a challenge. I struggled for a while before admitting defeat, crumbling it up and tossing it on the bed.

            Blair looked up, but I was too embarrassed to admit that I need help. I didn't want to seem weak, and the fact that I couldn't put my own shirt on screamed that.

            "You planning on streaking for the ladies?" Blair jokes, lightening the mood up.

            Having him help me put my shirt on was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I could feel my cheeks burning as he helped me get it over my head, to pull my arms through. I didn't often get embarrassed, but this took the cake.