Jagged Lies (All These Broken Parts #1)

1. Kennedy

Kennedy

S ilence has this wonderful way of communicating everything you need to understand, without saying anything at all.

The small plastic chair feels hard beneath my legs, fake leather sticking to my skin as I shift to alleviate my discomfort from the prickly heat. “So, Doc. How bad is it?”

My consultant is a well-meaning beta with a shock of white hair and eyebrows to match. Late fifties – or maybe early sixties – he sighs before shuffling his papers. A cough punctuates the air, the good doctor clearing his throat as he braces to deliver bad news as though it’ll be any kind of news at all.

Is there any other kind of news than bad?

I recognize the signs, the uncomfortable movement, a little too well. “This isn’t our first meeting. You can just say it.”

In fact, I’d rather he hurried up about it. Some of us don’t have time to waste sitting in beige rooms waiting around for the next blow.

His next sigh is a little more frustrated. I mentally award him an extra point for his tone when he finally speaks. I expected pity, but I get professionalism instead.

“I’ll be frank, Kennedy.” He glances down before looking up again, making sure he makes eye contact. Ticking off a mental checklist of how to talk to the dying. “Your prognosis is worse than when you were last here.”

It can get worse?

My blink is slow. “How much worse?”

Another awkward cough. “It’s difficult to give an exact timeline, as you know. But from your reported symptoms and the frequency – I would say we’re looking at weeks.”

Weeks.

“Maximum.” He says the word softly, as though it’ll be less of a smoking gun. “Possibly - more than likely – it will be days, Kennedy.”

This little leather chair is sturdier than it looks. My back slams against it, and I ignore the resulting shock of pain as I tilt my head back and take a breath.

It shouldn’t be a shock.

It shouldn’t.

And yet—

“I didn’t think it would be so fast.” My words are quieter than I’d like them to be. More uncertain.

Doctor Abrams gives me a considering look. An assessing one. “Have you been resting?”

I bite the inside of my cheek hard before responding. “Yes?”

He tilts his head. Professional he might be, but he has a way of pinning down bullshit. “You remember what we discussed. Plenty of rest – care – everything that soothes an omega – that’s what will help right now. Nesting. Time with family. Even without a mate, it will help.”

His wording threatens to stab into the hard set of shields I keep locked around certain memories, and I bite the inside of my cheek again. Metal on my tongue, the copper tang of blood.

A familiar scent.

“Sure.” I stare down at my hands, clenching them. “I’m getting all the care, Doc. Everybody’s been great.”

“But you’re here alone today?”

Damn, he doesn’t miss a trick. My cheeks heat, and I don’t look up. “My dad got held up at work. He’s coming.”

He doesn’t dignify my bald-faced lie with a response. “Yours is an unusual situation. You’re very young. If you had found your mates, there could be a small window of possibility where we could reassess—,”

“I haven’t.” My voice sharpens as I cut him off without apology. My back straightens. “We are where we are. I see no point in wasting time over possibilities that won’t happen. What do we do now?”

Abrams considers my question. His voice is heavy when he responds. “You have a key worker at the Center, correct?”

I swallow. Nod.

“We’ll prepare for the handover.” The apology in his voice even sounds real. “At this stage, we need to be considering your respite care. Things can move incredibly quickly at this point – it’s best to be prepared as much as possible, to minimize any stress for you. You’ll need to contact your key worker as soon as possible. Your situation is unusual, but the rules still apply. You’ll need to go in as soon as those final symptoms we discussed start to happen.”

My eyes squeeze closed. “I won’t really care either way about my stress levels, will I?”

There goes that silence again. Saying all the things that Abrams won’t.

My own words get tangled up in my throat. Several make their way out through the torrent flooding my head, croaking into the room. “I’m only eighteen, Doc.”

That’s it.

I haven’t even lived, and everyone is planning for my death.

Still. No point crying over something I can’t change. I swallow down everything else I want to say – and scream – and focus. Small steps.

One step at a time.

That’s how I’ve survived the last six months, and I have no plans to stop now. “Is there anything else I should be doing?”

Abrams’ brows draw together, before his lips firm. “I’ll need to check your lacerations. We’ll get the nurse in. How are your pain levels?”

Worse every day. “I’m fine.”

“Your tolerance is admirable.”

“Fucking superhuman.” I mutter the words as he presses a button to call for the nurse, already on my feet. It’s a familiar routine by now. Abrams pulls the curtain in the corner of the room around for me to undress, and I carefully ease my green turtleneck off, hissing between my teeth before laying it over the chair at the end of the bed and settling back.

I don’t look down. Not even when the older nurse ducks behind the curtain, her eyes flaring wide and her confident step faltering.

Abrams follows her, flicking through his chart. “When was the last time you changed your dressings?”

I check my watch. “This morning. Three times a day, right?”

“Right.” His touch is gentle as he probs the edges of the bandage that wraps around my neck, left shoulder and upper breast. “I’ll be as careful as I can. Are you ready?”

I should be used to it by now. But the small, horrified sound still has my eyes flying open.

“Nurse Rennan.” Doc’s voice is sharp. An admonishment.

Her eyes lock with mine, an apology there as Abrams continues his work. My vision greys, turning to nothing but flickering lines and dark spots as I breathe in and out against the agony of the saline. The flash of the camera brightens my closed eyelids. “Not too much longer, Kennedy.”

“Any—,” I suck in sharply at what feels like a knife sliding into my stomach. Fucking hell . “Any change?”

His fingers pause in their torture.

I don’t even know why I asked. “Never mind.”

“You said you were changing the dressings regularly.”

“I am.” I bite down again on my lip. “But I still try not to look. Wouldn’t you?”

Despite myself, my voice wavers. Moisture creates a sheen across my eyes that only grows when a hand slips into mine and squeezes. I can’t help but squeeze it back.

Self-pity, thy name is Kennedy Traylor.

When the torture – slash treatment – is done, the nurse helps me get dressed. I slump back against the examination table. The little energy I worked up this morning has well and truly vanished.

Rennan nudges a carton of orange juice and a fresh-looking chocolate-chip cookie into my trembling hands. She still looks apologetic. “This should help.”

I’m tempted to give it back to her. She looks greener than I do.

Abrams looks mildly disapproving, but he doesn’t say anything.

What can he say, anyway?

Don’t give the dying omega a cookie?

Nobody is that much of an asshole, and he’s nowhere near asshole status, really. At least he’s trying to help. I stay where I am, focusing on my snack as he pulls his chair around.

There’s a streak of black on his pristine white coat, and any appetite I might have had falls out of the bottom of my stomach. Sighing, I regretfully slip my cookie into my pocket for later. “Hit me with it.”

He’s slipped on the little half-crescent glasses that make him look like Father Christmas. If Father Christmas delivered updates on terminal illness instead of death. Lips pursed, he flicks through his paperwork again. “No change. But your scan results are concerning.”

My stomach flips, twists. “Why?”

He glances up. “Your brain wave test results show some significant spikes. It’s normal to see some peaks and troughs at this stage, but these are substantial enough that it indicates a steep decline in brain activity.”

Breathe, Kenny. “What does that look like? For me?”

He hesitates. “Seizures, potentially. Possibly some… erratic behaviors. Delirium. Hallucinations are likely. You’re likely to start experiencing some losses in memory, possibly acting out of character. Your condition… it’s a decline, but it’s only going to speed up, not slow down. There will be a large, rapid drop toward the end.”

“I see.” My voice sharpens unintentionally, and he winces.

“I apologize for the wording. It was thoughtless.”

He’s been with me since the beginning. When I woke up in a haze of fear and pain and clawing, endless panic that I haven’t been able to shake off since. With his charts, and his kind words, and his professional manner that I hold onto as if he might actually give a damn whether I make it through this or not.

It’s nice to think that somebody might give a shit.

I keep breathing. There’s nothing else I can do. “Anything else, Doc?”

“I want to see you every week from now on.” He stands, and I follow his lead, swinging my legs over the examination table. Nurse Rennan hovers at my shoulder to steady me, but I keep my spine straight as I pull myself upright.

I’m not there yet.

I bite back the flip in my stomach at the thought of telling Rick that I need to come back every seven days. “Sure.”

“And you’re certain that you have the right care arrangements in place? We can speak to the Center if not. They’ll obviously accept you earlier.”

Yeah, because they argued vehemently against letting me walk around freely at all.

Like hell. I’m not moving into that place any sooner than I absolutely have to. “I’m fine. Is that everything?”

“Rest,” he pushes. “It’s the best thing you can do.”

My lips lift slightly at the edges. “But I can rest when I’m dead, right?”

He stares at me. “Not funny.”

Not joking.