Dollars (Dollar 2)

A fatherly scowl illustrated his face. “You need to eat if you’re to regain your strength.” His eyes tracked to my belly, ignoring my naked breasts. Black and purple painted my skin; bruises disappearing under the bandage still wrapped around my ribs. “You’re underweight, undernourished. To put it frankly, you’re dying.”

I froze solid.

To hanker after death was one thing. To be told it was creeping over me without permission was entirely another.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He tried to soothe. “I meant, you’re in a bad way and need to help yourself. I can only do so much. It’s up to you to decide if you want to stick around. And if that decision is yes, then you need to start taking better care of yourself.”

I swallowed, tasting the faint rubber of his gloves.

But what if I don’t know what I want? What if I’m still afraid that if I accept life, Elder will steal it from me in some other way?

Michaels didn’t wait for me to answer him. He took my broken hand, inspecting the plastic splint and bandage, making sure it was still secure. “Now you’re coherent and not in a hospital bed straight out of surgery, I’m going to be honest with you. Do you think you can handle that?”

A huge exhale exploded from me.

Truth.

Honesty.

Yes, I want that.

I need that.

It was frank truth I was missing. Wrapped up and given my own space with no rules or expectations wasn’t good for me.

“That’s what you want? No matter if it’s scary? You want the truth?”

Do I do it?

Yes, that question was worthy of breaking my silent oath.

I nodded just briefly.

Michaels beamed. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” His face fell a second later. “Not that I should be happy to tell you bad news, of course.”

Bad news?

What bad news?

I shuffled forward, clutching the sheet in my lap.

He sighed. “I’m going to be frank and not sugar-coat it, okay?”

What the hell? I’d nodded once. Another wouldn’t hurt.

I tilted my chin down then up.

“All right then.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Your body has been through a lot. I don’t need to tell you that. Even with you eating and resting like you should be—” he gave me a commanding glare —“you’d still have months’ of recovery before you’re on the mend.” He pointed at my mouth. “Realistically, your tongue is the least of your worries. That will heal as long as you keep it clean and don’t bite it again. Your hand will heal now it’s bound, and your ribs will be fine as long as you don’t ransack your room every night.”

His head turned to survey the damage but didn’t make a comment on the mess. “What won’t heal quickly are the injuries you never had tended to. Older broken bones that mended but incorrectly. Your feet, your fingers, your leg. The bumps and abnormalities will only become more troublesome as you get older.”

I swallowed again, feeling smaller and smaller, more and more fragile.

“Some of your teeth are loose from being struck. Your blood-work shows a few vitamin deficiencies. You need your eyesight tested along with many other examinations to ensure you’ll be okay.”

He patted my knee almost subconsciously over the sheet. “The body is a miraculous thing, and if you give it time and patience and the tools in order to knit itself back together, it will. Even with the other things I’ve mentioned. If you agree to let a dentist look at your teeth, and an optometrist to ensure your eyes are good, even a neurologist to check your nerves and brain function, then any future complications can be managed.”

Silence fell.

Somehow, I knew that wasn’t the end of the lecture. Slowly, because I knew it made him uncomfortable, I raised the sheet, covering my breasts and tucking it under my arms.

He gave me a half smile. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve seen enough human forms not to be embarrassed. Although, you’ve just proven your biggest injury to overcome.”

I waited for the awful verdict. A verdict I’d already realised after turning into mayhem and demolishing the lovely suite Elder had given me.

“Your mind,” Michaels murmured. “Your mind is going to be…messed up for a while.”

Tears clawed the back of my eyes as someone finally acknowledged what I feared. It shouldn’t make me so relieved to have confirmation that I was going mad. Having him understand…God, it was as if I had permission to give into the psychotic breaking inside. That I could somehow swim to the other side and still be whole when I got there.

Michaels held out his hand, palm up, as an offering of support.

The urge to take it—to have someone squeeze me in comfort rather than in pain—was overwhelming. But I didn’t reach out. I hugged my sheet and myself, drawing comfort from my body the way I’d done for so long.