26 Walking Corpse #2
The next week is... annoying. There's no better word for it. I still can't get out of bed without help, and even sitting up feels like scaling a mountain. If I move too fast, the room begins to swirl.
Lifting a cup of water? Exhausting. I have to focus just so it doesn't slip through my hands.
Meals are tiny. Small cups of chicken broth with a few soft noodles floating inside. My stomach can't tolerate more than a few sips, and even those make me nauseous.
Everything hurts.
Everything is bruised.
During one of the sponge baths—warm water, gentle hands, the soft drag of cloth, and clean-smelling soap— I caught another sight of my reflection in the portable mirror. Or what's left of me.
Bones jutting out in every direction.
Skin mottled in purple, green, and yellow bruises.
Cuts and scabs all over.
I look… hollow.
Most of the time, I sleep. The IV drips nutrients into my body that I desperately need. But sleep isn't restful. It never is.
Nightmares drag me under—thrashing limbs, sweat-soaked sheets, someone shaking my shoulder, soothing tones pulling me out.
Someone is always there, keeping me company.
Luca or Maeve, I think they have their own rotation going.
Noah comes too, though it seems that he's been tasked with keeping track of Jace. I can't blame them. I don't even know how I feel about Jace yet.
My thoughts are slippery, like I'm trying to hold onto a fish. They slip away before I can really grab them, but I'm getting there.
The following week is better. Not good. But better.
I'm finally able to get out of bed. First with nurses or Luca lifting most of my weight. Then with a walker.
Luca laughs and makes jokes about me being an old lady. I barely manage to throw a cup at him.
After the walker, I keep a shaky grip on Luca's arm, walking short distances.
Maybe the length of the room, or down the hall.
It wipes me out, but I'm determined to get better as fast as possible.
I often push myself till I'm ready to collapse, sometimes I do and Luca has to carry me back to my room.
My eyes stay open longer.
The bruises fade from violent purple to muted yellow.
My stomach stops rejecting food, and I start eating soft foods, then whatever they'll let me have. My appetite creeps back in small waves.
Noise is still a problem.
A dropped tray, the door shutting too hard, someone walking too heavily in the hallway. Any sudden sound sends a shock through me, dropping me right back into that basement. Heart pounding, breath trapped, body frozen.
We're…working on it. At least that's what the shrink says.
She says I have PTSD, not only from this but from Daniel too.
Great.
And the memories—God, the memories.
More and more of them are coming back, like bubbles floating up to the surface. Popping up at the most random of times.
Sometimes I wish they'd stay buried. I’d rather not remember.
I don't look as thin anymore. My cheeks are filling out, my arms are not as skeletal. But filling back in will take time. Everything takes time.
My therapist says healing isn't linear. It's messy and slow.
But I'm still here.
Still standing… Well, sometimes.
By the one-month mark, my body isn't the fragile, trembling thing it was when they first brought me in. I can finally stand without swaying like a reed.
I can walk without clutching the wall; my legs don't feel like they'll fold under me every time I take a step.
My strength comes back in small, stubborn increments. A little more muscle. A little more color in my face. A little less trembling in my hands.
Eating isn't a battle anymore. I can finish full meals. Sometimes, even asking for more. The nurses track my weight, nodding approvingly when the numbers rise. I don't look, though, I don't want to fixate.
My nightmares still come, but not every night.
Luca stays with me most nights. I'll scoot over, and he lets me lie on his chest, telling me he's here to keep watch.
Some nights I sleep through. Some nights, I wake up sweating but not screaming. Some nights I stretch out and realize I'm not in the basement anymore.
And that realization feels strange.
Therapy is getting harder. She insists on facing the memories I don't want to talk about.
Gideon's hands. Butch and Delaine touching me, my body.
Some sessions leave me raw; others leave me numb. But I'm talking. I'm remembering and working through it, not running away.
That's what matters.
Walking becomes my daily exercise.
Not just inside the room or down the hall, but outside.
Luca pushes me in a wheelchair at first, but soon enough, I'm walking alongside him in the courtyard paths. Sometimes Maeve walks with me, talking about nothing just to distract me.
Noah brings me books and things to do in bed to pass the time. He brings me easy puzzles and games.
Sometimes I catch a familiar figure standing at the end of the hall or walking past my door. I'm not ready to face that yet. I'm not ready to face him.
My skin is healing, and the bruises are gone. My ribs are still sensitive, and some deeper aches linger. Stubborn and refusing to leave. But I can breathe without wincing. I can lift my arms without them shaking.
I'm not whole, but after a month, I can finally look in the mirror and see someone I recognize. She somewhat resembles the girl from before.
The doctors agree I can continue healing from the comfort of my own room. I start to panic at the thought of Blackmoore. I've been missing for almost six months.
Maeve reassures me that Lucian had handled it. He told them I was working from home for a while for some family emergency, which in reality, Maeve was submitting assignments for me.
Before I could protest, she told me she was only doing her part in covering for me, and she didn't mind in the slightest.