Restraint is Useless Here

Chapter Twelve

The siren's wails crescendoed as the ambulance closed in on him. Fitting, given the steadily intensifying throbs screaming throughout Jack's body. He couldn't quite localize the point of origin—he consisted entirely of pain.

Was it even a mercy that the singer called an ambulance for him?

He had no girlfriend anymore.
No powder.
And as he lay on his back in a dirty alley, no fucking dignity.

He coughed and sputtered as he turned his head to the side. His gut churned at the movement. Blood mixed with mucous in a steady stream down his throat didn't allow for effective breathing as he lay supine. His nasal airways were useless. The guitarist had obliterated the cartilage, possibly the bone. At the very least, only one fracture. At most, he'd need the full-blown Michael Jackson treatment.

He'd vomit soon, that much was inevitable. Blood was a natural emetic.

In vain, he willed his body to stop trembling. Using his foot, he urged his body to the side in just enough time to spew blood, the clots sticky and staining the asphalt. The constant flow of tears—thanks to his broken nose—blurred his vision, but he was shocked at the amount of red. His heart threatened to crack through his rib cage from dehydration and adrenaline and the paradox of being high, yet still craving more.

Fuck. His stash. It was drenched, but it was contraband.

The simple act of sliding his hand into his pocket was the most grueling thing he'd ever done—bones creaking and grinding and pulling with the effort. Nobody realizes how many tiny muscles and bones it takes to move an inch until your entire upper body is broken. A part of him withered to even consider tossing it.

The siren droned a final warning, probably within a quarter mile now. He had to ditch it.

This would not feel good.

Gathering up every ounce of strength he had left, he launched the baggie as deep into the alley as he could, right before his vision exploded with white, brutal shock waves echoing through the right side of his chest. He slowly brought his legs up in the fetal position and choked back a sob.

He watched the puddle of blood slowly expand outward, connecting and consuming the scattered rusty specks on the ground, until the flicker of blue lights reflected off the crimson surface.

________

Jack awoke to a rather irritating fanfare.

A very round, very hairy man whistled a lively tune as he clicked and scrolled through the recovery room's computer. Not a normal whistle, though. One of those airy, toothy whistles. Like he'd never bothered to learn the proper way.

Click.
Sssst-sst-sssssst.
Click.
Click click.
Sssst-ssssst-st-st-ssst.

Despite the buzz of whatever painkiller coursed through his system, this grated Jack's nerves. He opened his mouth in attempt to protest, but groaned at the stiffness in his neck and upper body. His eyes fell to a sling, securing his right arm against his chest at a 90 degree angle.

The man spun in his stool to face him and his fuzzy eyebrows jumped two inches up his forehead. "Well, hello there, son! I'm Dr. Richards, with ortho. Nice little fracture you had there, so I got that clavicle all set for ya—just some pins and screws. How's your pain?"

Jack grimaced at his cheeriness. It hurt. Both the grimace and the cheer.

Without waiting for a reply, the man rolled his chair forward to press the red button on his bed rail, calling for more morphine.

Dr. Richards stood and leaned forward to peel back the surgical dressing, his pendulous belly strained against his scrub bottoms and rested on Jack's arm. The downward draft from his nostrils was hot and moist. How the hell was this walking heart attack an orthopedic surgeon? How did he function?