Chapter 75
Chapter seventy-five
In The Name Of The Father
Marco
Beeping and whirring echo in my ears. It feels far away, like I’m swimming under water and being drawn towards the sound up on the shore.
The closer I get, the sharper the sounds get, until my own groans as I try to move my body mix with the rhythmic hissing, whirring, and beeping that bounce around me.
I’m trying to open my eyes, but the effort is almost too much, and I’m just about to give up when I hear her sweet voice, the same one filled with light and hope and something else.
Raw desperation. I manage to get them unstuck.
The face of the angel who dragged me back from the brink of darkness beams her light into me once more.
She’s makeup-free and her hair is pulled off her face, the bits that have escaped acting as telling signs of where she’s been scraping her fingertips through it anxiously.
Silent tears stream down her face, her chest heaving with the sobs she’s trying her best to contain.
“Don’t cry, Kitten,” I croak out. My throat burns, and I go to lift a hand to her face, but the tubes attached feel like ten-ton weights, and the effort is too much.
Instead, Sophia leans down and kisses my forehead.
I revel in the comfort of her familiar touch, the warmth of my own tears cascading down my cheeks.
“You can tick hero off your bingo card, Marco-Boy,” she says, trying to use humor to mask the horror of what she witnessed. I laugh weakly, but that quickly turns into a pained groan.
My parents walk in then with two doctors.
One introduces himself as Dr. Solano, the trauma surgeon, and the other is his attending.
A nurse checks my vitals and writes on my chart.
I fix my stare on Dr. Solano, trying not to become distracted by the huddled and bone-tired forms of my parents standing behind him.
“The operation went well, Mr. Marrone. We removed the bullet successfully, and while you did experience a significant amount of blood loss, you’re extremely lucky that the bullet missed your major arteries and vital organs, so there’s no other permanent damage.
We’ll keep you here for at least a week to ensure we manage your pain and risk of infection,” he explains.
“We’d also like you to start some physical therapy while you’re here and advise you speak to one of our therapists.
You’ve gone through a significant trauma, and there’s a strong chance you’ll experience PTSD.
That goes for you too, Sophia. Don’t be too proud to lean on your support system—I can tell by the waiting room filled with your friends and family you’re lucky to have a solid one.
Rest up, and I’ll be back around in a few hours. ”
Sophia doesn’t drop my hand the whole time, her touch soothing and grounding all at once.
When he leaves, the suffocating heaviness of unspoken words blankets the room.
My parents approach the bed tentatively, like they’re petrified.
I stretch my free arm towards them as best I can to silently tell them it’s okay.
Then they both break, their tears of relief and remorse mixing with my own.
My mom strokes my face, murmuring “I love you” and “Sorry” like a chant.
My dad wraps one arm around her waist to support her swaying body and uses his free hand to wrap his fingers around mine.
“Dad. Mom. Is what Chiara said true? How…What does this mean?” I whisper.
They share a look and nod their heads. They both look so broken, the toll of carrying that secret for almost thirty years etched into both their faces.
Regardless of the conversation we’re about to have and the shock I’m grappling with, I remind myself these are the two people who raised me and supported me in everything.
I am the man I am today thanks to Samuel, and the example of love, care, and patience he’s always shown.
At the very least, I owe him the chance to explain his side of the bombshell Chiara dropped.
Stay calm and listen to all the facts with a level head first, son.
Then make your call. Even now, it’s his words of advice ringing in my ears.