But I can’t keep hurting him. Can’t keep letting him save me. Can’t keep injecting more pain into his sad bruise of a life. Can’t coexist with both of us living a confusing lie.
“You gonna be okay alone for a few minutes?” Marty asks. “I’ll go fill everyone else in on how he’s doing.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I know I might never be okay again.
What if he wakes up and asks me to go home when my truest home is here?
What if I can’t leave the man I love so desperately a second time?
26
Feral Pig (Weston)
Have I mentioned I hate fucking hospitals?
I force myself to not so much as flinch while the doctor’s grubby hand digs at my bandage. He wants to see the raw hole in my upper thigh.
The leg feels tender, sore, but with his approval, I might be able to escape this place today. Hell, with how I’m feeling right now, I’ll leave without it.
She was there when I woke up from surgery, straddling two realities. No doubt about every living bit of her being real.
I remember her small hand in mine, fiery as ever.
I remember the glassy look in her eyes.
I remember her lips caressing my forehead as she kissed me.
I also remember that I haven’t seen her since, and I wonder why.
She barely said a word when she was here.
Marty tried explaining it the next day when he’d stopped by to see me. She wasn’t able to talk much after the way that sadistic freak choked her.
Strangled her till she’d passed out, and again while she scratched up his face with that nettle.
I’m still so furious I can see the heart monitor spike every time I think about it.
Not even Drake’s assurances that they’ll throw the book at Carson Hudson—Carson Bostrom, technically, I guess—and his shithead minions helps.
Shelly could’ve been seriously hurt. Slaughtered.
They could’ve taken her away from me before I ever got a chance to say jack shit to her. And I’m ready to say a lot more now, whenever I see her again.
“You didn’t finish your lunch, I’m told,” the doc says, looking at me over his spectacles.
“Not hungry,” I answer. “How’s the leg look?”
“Well enough with the great work I do,” the doc says proudly. “The swelling is down significantly today. You’re welcome, Mr. McKnight.”
I snort, casting him a deadly look.
“So, you mean I can go home? Great.”
“Well...ideally, I’d like to keep the leg immobilized for at least another day and do one last check.”
“It’s been three goddamned days,” I snarl, trying to sit up and instantly regretting it.
It feels like a rat with rabies crawled up my thigh and gnawed his way out.