The Vigilante's Handbook (Misfits #1)

Six: An Emotional Gunshot Victim

I felt woozy when I opened my eyes. By woozy, I mean ready to puke and in full-body pain. The dimly lit interior of the nurse's office stared back at me. At least there were no laughter is the best medicine posters here. Right now I did not want laughter, I wanted a painkiller strong enough to knock me out until graduation.

Still bloodied gauze was wrapped around my left bicep. I had only the gauze to thank for keeping me from bleeding out. You know, put a bandaid on a bullet wound and call it good. Who needs actual medical attention?

Half a dozen academy medical staff were busy on the other side of the room. Their blurry faces paid me no attention. I couldn't even show my gratitude to an IV bag full of morphine because no IV was sticking out of my arm.

I usually didn't demand attention, but I thought about yelling at the slowly clarifying faces as I struggled closer to full consciousness. "Excuse me. Don't mind me over here. I was only shot seconds before being thrown mindlessly into the air. A road in West Lincoln is now stained with my blood. But, by all means, take your time before giving me proper medical care."

My need for attention felt justified as the pulsing pain up and down my arm intensified.

Then my vision cleared completely and shame, hot and bitter, coursed through me as I saw what the doctors were fussing over.

Stitch had an army of machines plugged into him with a matching battalion of white coated doctors crowding around his bed. A steady whump whump filled the room from the heart monitor of his army. Mona was next to him, pale from gift burnout. At least, I hoped that was all it was. I had heard more gunshots than I had seen.

Diego and Lucia occupied the other beds that weren't swarmed with doctors. They had burned arms and cuts and bruises. I had done that. Probably not the lacerations, but the burns were all the doing of one Anna Green and my useless power. What good was fog in a real fight?

Might as well throw the blame for their other injuries on me too. I shouldn't have left the nickelcade. I shouldn't have refused the town car ride. I shouldn't have made eye contact with Chalkboard Voice. I shouldn't have burned my limited ability up so fast.

Just as tears began to leak down my cheeks--I suppose I have always been an emotional gunshot victim--a voice alerted everyone to my presence. "She's awake!" It was Miss Freyson.

Across the room came a spill of medical mumbo jumbo. It was all very dramatic as if hidden cameras were recording Paramount Lake's recovery room for a late night medical documentary with poor quality actors. All I caught in plain English was the word sedative.

I protested. "Just tell me how my friends are doing," I tried to say, but my tears weren't stopping now that they had come. "How are they?" A syringe filled my veins with lead and I drifted off once more.

Something was tickling my nose.

First I tried to wiggle away from whatever it was that was doing the tickling to no effect. Then I swatted the fly or whatever it was away. A brief respite before it was back. In a last ditch attempt to save my nose, I managed to roll over on my bed and bury my face in the sweet protection of my pillow.

Correction: I tried to roll over in my bed and failed.

What I managed to do instead was roll off the bed and onto the linoleum floor of the recovery room. Above me was laughter. Distinct laughter, to be exact. When you have had minimal contact with the real world and spend too much time with a small group of people, you learn things about them. You learn about their pasts, their fears, their weaknesses, their dreams. And the exact sound of their annoying laughter.

Before anyone helped me off the ground, I had picked out the distinct parrot shriek of Mona, Julien's piglet snort that was surprisingly cute, and threw in the strangled face Miguel made when I told a joke.

Arms helped me back on the bed. I opened my eyes and there they were. Check, check, and check.

"I hate all of you. You are officially taken out of my will. I am leaving all of my possessions to the metaphorical concept of loyalty since none of you have it." But I was grinning and allowed Julien to interlace his fingers with mine.

"It's your fault for being the last one to wake up," Mona said.

"And your fault you didn't tell me where you were going, so I had to worry about you." Though he wore a good natured smile, there were dark half moons imprinted on the skin below Julien's eyes. He was only half joking. "Consider this payback."

I turned to Miguel for his contribution, but it seemed he had gone mute again. He only shrugged and added his smile to the jests.

But all I heard was your fault, your fault, your fault. Familiar guilt flooded my system.

"How are the others?"

"Mild burns," Julien said. Your fault.

"Overgrown ego, in Lucia's case," Mona said over him. "Apparently she 'saved our sorry lives' or whatever, so be prepared to never hear the end of that."

"And Stitch?"

Dead silence.

"Is he okay?"

No answer. Just a thrumming your fault, your fault, your fault.

"Come on. Please tell me." Worst case scenarios flashed through my mind. One particular worst case I didn't want to even entertain. "He isn't-" I couldn't finish.

They turned away.

Across the room, a voice that sounded like a garbage disposal had been gargling gravel cut in. "Stop telling people I'm dead."

"Sometimes I can still hear his voice." Mona turned back to reveal it was not tears she had been trying to hide but that stupid parrot laugh.

"And stop trying to resurrect dead jokes," Stitch added as he hobbled into view with a pair of crutches and a boot swallowing the bottom half of his right leg. As if seeing him walking wasn't enough of a confirmation that he wasn't dead, the kid felt the need to reassure me. "I'm fine."

"Define fine. Because crutches and the recovery room don't sound like fine to me." Before I could get my definition, I pulled my hand from Julien's and slapped his across the arm. "How dare you?" A bubble of laughter burst from my throat. It was a manic, strangled sort of sound that brought a look of concern to all except Stitch. The bubble could have just as easily been a fresh wave of tears or vomit.

"It's good to know you can laugh at my recent death."

"You were trying to keep your distance from me," I shot back. "I can't mourn or people will think we're friends."

"Funny how a life threatening situation will do that to you."

Cue a questioningly raised eyebrow from me. The little movement hurt. How was it that a gunshot wound to the arm could make my forehead muscles hurt like it had taken the shot? And every other muscle at the same time?

"It seems that after word of our skirmish broke out," Stitch said. "Our fellow students have lumped me into your misfits." A grin told me he was okay with it. I readily returned my own crooked smile.

Julien's dark eyebrows rose. "Misfits? What misfits?" Because of course he didn't understand the academy hierarchy like the rest of us.

"Don't worry about it," I assured him. "Just tell the nurse I need more painkillers."

you may be thinking that this is a short chapter, which is what I thought when I skimmed over it a few seconds ago. it turns out that i'm just bad at sticking to my preferred chapter length of 1-2k. this is the length i'm trying to shoot for, but let me know if that works for you!

what are your thoughts on the misfits' (and julien's) group dynamic? honestly, i love and hate all of them at the same time.

-m nicole