Forty-Four
Hunter
He drifted in and out of consciousness. They were seconds long and consisted of him staring emptily across the room, face empty, his body a vessel of vacant feeling. Then he’d close his eyes and drift back under, surfacing when his pain meds began to wear off and the nurse was due to arrive.
When this happened, he’d see through bleary eyes the tiny figure on the chair next to him, watching him. It must have been his mother, making sure he was alright, tending to him in light of what happened.
But then he’d catch the flash of blonde hair before he fell back into darkness and remember like a harsh punch in the chest what happened.
And suddenly sleeping didn’t seem so bad.
He longed to forget, to drift between the worlds, unconscious, in that wonderful state of limbo where nothing existed in the quiet dark.
*
“Hunter!” her voice rose, sounding desperate and afraid. “Oh, my God, Hunter, stop it, please!”
He felt his body convulsing along with his rage as he punched his chest repeatedly. He had woken up with a start, the chaos vivid in his mind, the loss fresh and raw, and he couldn’t stop the slithering rage beneath the surface of his skin, clawing to be let out.
He ripped the thick bandage off his face, shrieking into the air, striking at his body, at every pained hole that fuck had put into him.
He tore the blankets off and ripped the hospital gown from his body, looking down at his thickly bandaged flesh, tearing at the gauze and the dressings and watching as the blood resurfaced and oozed from the holes—so many fucking holes!
Warm hands pressed against his chest, and Skye’s voice screamed, “Stop it, Hunt! Stop!”
He pushed her hands off him, not wanting her warmth, or to even look at her—
He wanted to bleed, to grow cold, to fade back into blackness so he didn’t have to remember searching for his mother’s hand…So he didn’t have to hear her gurgled breaths as she faded into the nothing.
His body throbbed in a thousand different places, the pain overwhelming, the anger so palpable, he continued to direct it at himself, to tear apart at himself for letting her die right there from him when he should have been awake to save her.
More than one pair of hands pressed him back, overpowering him, and then he felt a prick somewhere on his body, but there was pain everywhere and he couldn’t pinpoint just where.
The darkness returned swiftly after that, and he wondered if that was the answer.
Keep fighting so they could put him under.
And maybe this time they wouldn’t try to make him better.
*
The next time he opened his eyes, he surrendered to the tears. He sobbed until he felt like vomiting. And then she was there, stroking his hair, trying to ease him while she, too, cried.
And this time, Hunter didn’t want to drift back into darkness.
He just wanted to hold Skye and tell her where it hurt.
“My fucking heart,” he groaned. “My fucking heart, Skye…”
He sobbed like a little boy. He cried more than he had cried as a little boy. He wanted his fucking mother back. Could he get her back? Was it possible? Maybe this wasn’t real.
But the pain radiated out of all those deep holes in his body, and he knew with certainty that it had all happened. That Kayla Dawes was gone.
That a part of him, a pivotal part, had died along with her.
*
Every time he came to, he found Skye curled up in the chair beside the bed, either dozing or staring blankly at the phone in her hand. Her other hand was always on the bed, inches from his skin, as though desperate to touch him, but afraid to wake him.