The Anatomy of a Broken Heart //Completed//

90. Santana

Death is a funny feeling. It comes cold at first, to the point of unbearability until, when you think it cannot hurt any more, it embraces you, like a warm hug, welcoming you home. I saw a light. I really did. All the clichés about the light at the end up the tunnel revealed themselves to be completely true when I finally reached my end...and I saw something else, just out of reach. A figure, blurry at the edges and evanescent like smoke, gone as quickly as it came. And then there was the darkness. I woke up from a long dream but as much as I tried to remember it, all the images kept running away like children playing tag, just out of reach until they didn't exist any longer and I was only left with the memory of a memory.

My eyes tore open crusted shut eyelids and I blinked rapidly at the blinding fluorescents of the hospital room. I wore a thin gown with a funny cloud pattern as if they could chase away the fact that I was in a waiting room for the dead. Connected to my arm was a tube which ran up to an almost empty bag of liquids and up my nose was a cannula administering cold oxygen which made my head feel light.

I tried to sit up straight but everything hurt, starting at my belly, extending through my limbs. I was bandaged like a mummy from chest to feet. On my cheek, I could feel a thick gauze taped just below my right eye. When I failed to sit up again, the pain sent my heartbeat into a frenzy and the monitor next to me cried out, beeping like crazy. A nurse came in and forced me back into the soft bed while she took my vitals. She showed me the blessed morphine pump I could press whenever I needed a happy boost and I made sure to press it enough times to let me sleep again. I didn't want to be awake with the pain or the thoughts that had finally begun to creep in after the initial survival instincts wore off. I didn't let those thoughts fully form before I was under once again. The next time I woke up, it was dark inside my room and a body was sitting next to me.

"Dad?"

My father stirred in his seat and turned to me. "Hey, little fish. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a freight train," I rasped out and coughed to clear my throat which was parched.

Dad handed me a cup full of water and I chugged it gratefully. He didn't say anything else while he filled up my cup again and I downed that one too. He didn't even say anything when I lay back on the bed, exhausted from merely drinking water, or when I fiddled nervously with the needle in my arm. It was me who finally broke the tense silence.

"So, how long was I asleep?"

"You were in surgery for around two hours and then you were in and out of sleep for another five or so." He replied mechanically as if he had known I'd ask, and rehearsed his answer.

I nodded and looked up at the muted television which had the Spanish news channel on. A lawyer had died, the caption read. Overdosed on cocaine after his daughter committed suicide.

It was morbidly ironic. I'd watched commercials of this lawyer play throughout my life. He was the people's hero, an immigrant rights activist, the white savior of the little people. Doomed to disappoint. Even heroes have their demons.

The door opened slowly and my sister walked in looking haggard, but when she saw me, a smile lit up her face. Guilt twisted in my core when I remembered the last thing we fought about and I wondered how betrayed she still felt.

"You're awake! How are you feeling?" She walked shyly towards the foot of the bed and stood there looking like a different girl dressed in dark green and black.

"I'm going to look for some dinner in the cafeteria. I'll be back in a bit," Dad said and got up. He picked up a cane I hadn't noticed before and limped out of the room.