Chapter 40 Marco
Marco
The first thing I register is pain.
Not the dull ache of a hangover or the burn of touching a hot pan. This is something else entirely. A living thing with teeth that gnaws through every nerve ending from my face to my shoulder. Like someone’s dragging a white-hot poker across my skin and won’t stop. Won’t ever fucking stop.
The second thing I register is beeping. Steady. Mechanical. Monitors.
Hospital.
I’m in a hospital.
My eyes crack open. The light is dim but still feels like knives. Everything’s fuzzy around the edges. Soft focus. Like looking through gauze.
Wait. That’s not metaphorical. There is gauze. Wrapped around my head. I can feel it. Tight. Restrictive. Covering most of my face.
I turn my head. The movement sends fresh sparks of pain radiating across my face but I don’t care. I need to understand where I am. What happened. How bad it is.
The room swims into focus slowly. Piece by piece. Like a kitchen coming online before service.
Pain.
Monitors first. Three of them mounted on a rolling stand. Lines trace across screens in steady rhythms. Green. Red. Numbers that probably mean something to someone who isn’t me.
Agony.
Electrodes. I can feel them now that I’m looking. Stuck to my chest. My good shoulder. Wires trailing away like pasta pulled too thin.
Pain.
An IV line snakes from my right arm to a bag hanging above. Clear liquid dripping steady. Morphine? Maybe something else. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s not working, not keeping the fire at bay.
Agony.
A call button on a control bar resting close to my fingers. I grip the bar frantically, press the call button.
Morphine. Need morphine.
I wait for confirmation that someone heard me.
Nothing, so far.
I continue examining my surroundings.
Pain.
My left arm is bandaged thick. White gauze from fingertips to elbow. I try to flex my fingers and the pain becomes even more intense. And what do I get for my effort? The fingers barely respond. Wrapped too tight or nerve damage. Could be either. Could be both.
What the fuck happened?
Then it comes back. Fragments at first. The woods. Ben. The deer. The bear charging. The shotgun blast that should have stopped it.
Didn’t.
Then claws. Then black. Then here.
Oh God. Ben. Jess.
If something happened to them, I’ll never forgive myself.
I try to sit up. Can’t.
Agony.
Too much.
I turn my head further, fighting the pain, trying to see more of the room through the narrow slits of the bandage.
A tray table sits within reach. Empty except for a plastic water pitcher and a cup with a straw. And my phone. The window catches my attention next. Blinds pulled shut. No light seeping through the slats. Either very early morning or very late night.
Time doesn’t exist in places like this.
Just before and after.
Pain and relief.
Awake and mercifully unconscious.
The walls are that particular shade of beige that’s supposed to be calming but just feels empty. A whiteboard mounted opposite the bed lists names. Nurses probably. Shift schedules.
Pain.
My name at the top in dry erase marker. FIORE, MARCO.
Yeah. That’s me. What’s left of me anyway.
And to the right of my name is a small box labeled: Anticipated Date of Discharge. The box is empty.
In here for the long haul, then.
Agony.
I manage to turn my head more, just a bit more, and spot two chairs next to my bed. That’s when I see them.
Jess. Ben.
Both asleep.
Both safe.
I exhale in relief. It makes me forget the pain for a moment. Instead, my chest becomes tight and my throat closes up.
They’re okay.
They’re alive.
They’re here.
But... they shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t see me like this.
Whatever “this” is.
I try to lift my left hand again.
Agony.
It won’t cooperate.
Bandaged.
Of course it’s bandaged.
I reach for the call button with my right hand again. Find it after fumbling against the bed rail. Press it again.
Wait.
Still nothing.
I press again. Harder.
Where the fuck is she?
The door opens. Finally. A nurse I don’t recognize. Young. Efficient looking.
“Mr. Fiore?” Her voice is too loud. Way too loud.
I glance at the corner. Jess stirs slightly. Ben doesn’t move.
Fuck.
I need to get them out before they wake up.
Before they see me like this.
A shadow of my former self.
“Morphine,” I whisper. Or try to whisper. My voice comes out wrong. Wet and garbled like I’m talking through a mouthful of ground beef. “Fucking morphine. Now!”
“I need to check your vitals first.” Still too loud. Why is she so loud?
If she wakes them up I’m going to strangle her...
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “And I don’t give a fuck about my vitals. Get me the morphine or get me someone who will.”
She hesitates. Glances at the sleeping figures in the corner. Finally lowers her volume. “Let me just—”
“Morphine,” I repeat.
She moves to the IV. Checks something. Takes her sweet fucking time about it.
But at least she’s quiet now.
“Please.” The word costs me. Begging isn’t my style. But the pain is eating me alive and I need Jess and Ben gone before they see me like this.
The rational part of my mind tries to tell me they’ve already seen me like this.
I ignore it.
Finally the nurse adjusts the drip. About fucking time. The relief is almost immediate. Not complete. But enough that I can breathe without wanting to claw my own face off.
Then again, given the agony I’m feeling in my jaw and cheek, and the bandage around my head, I have to wonder how much of my face is left to claw.
She quietly checks my vitals (against my fucking wishes I might add) and then finally leaves.
Alone again in the dim room.
Except I’m not alone.
Jess and Ben are still here.
Still sleeping.
Still too close to this disaster.
I need them out. Need them gone before I fall apart completely. I don’t want them to see me begging for morphine like my life depends on it.
Which it does.
The door opens again. Ethan this time. Still in his paramedic uniform. What’s he doing here? Just finished a shift? Certainly looks tired as hell.
He sees me awake. His expression shifts. Relief mixed with something else. Concern maybe.
“Hey.” He keeps his voice low. Moves to the chair beside the bed but doesn’t sit. Looks at me. Hard. Like he’s assessing damage.
I turn my head toward the corner. Toward Jess and Ben.
“Get them the fuck out,” I hiss. My voice is still fucked but clearer now that the morphine is working.
Or maybe less clear. I can’t tell anymore.
I’m certainly feeling drowsy as hell, and fighting the urge to go to sleep again.
At least the pain is dull. Still there, but dull.
“Before they wake up. I don’t want them to see me like this. ”
Ethan follows my gaze. Studies the sleeping figures. Then looks back at me.
“Marco—”
“I mean it.” I try to put my usual command in my voice, but it comes out desperate instead. More like a plea. “Get them out. Take them home. Anywhere. Just. Not here.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he leans back.
“Ben’s been asking for you,” he says quietly. “Every hour. ‘Is Daddy awake yet?’ Jess has been running herself into the ground keeping her calm.”
The guilt twists in my chest. Sharper than the pain.
“That’s why they need to leave,” I press. “This isn’t... they shouldn’t have to see.”
“See what? That her father is alive?” Ethan’s voice is gentle but firm. “Marco. They need to see you’re okay. They need to know you’re still here.”
“I’m not okay.” The words scrape out. “Look at me. I’m.” I can’t finish. Don’t have words for whatever the fuck I am now.
“You’re alive,” Ethan says simply. “That’s what matters to them. Not what you look like under those bandages. Please, let me wake them up.”
I want to argue. Want to insist. Want to maintain some shred of control over this nightmare.
But he’s right. I know he’s right.
Still.
“Just. Give me a minute,” I tell him drowsily. With luck, I’ll be fast asleep before I have to deal with this. “Let me. Fuck. I don’t know. Prepare or something.”
“Take your time,” Ethan says. “But Marco? They’ve been through hell too. They need to see you. Even if you don’t want them to see you like this. Especially because you don’t want them to.” He pauses. “How’s the pain?”
“Manageable.” Lie. But what’s he going to do about it?
“You have the best surgeon in New York,” Ethan tells me. “Dr. Reeves is the real deal. If anyone can put you back together it’s him.”
Put me back together. Like I’m a broken plate that can be glued and made whole again.
Except plates don’t feel pain. Don’t lie awake wondering if their kid saw them get turned into hamburger by a fucking grizzly.
Speaking of which, I need to know...
“Ben.” I force the word out. “When I was down... after the bear... I have no memory. Did Ben... did she see?”
Ethan’s expression doesn’t change. But something flickers in his eyes. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” He leans forward. “The ranger told us everything. Jess put herself between you and Ben. Wouldn’t let her look. Not once. Kept her face pressed into her jacket the whole time.”
The relief hits harder than the morphine. Makes my chest tight.
She protected my kid. Took the hit to her own nerves instead of letting Ben see her father’s face ripped open like a fucking side of beef.
“She saved your life out there, you know,” Ethan continues. “She used the bear spray. Got the fucker off you. Stayed calm when most people would have run.”
Oh God.
Jess.
I owe her everything.
The guilt follows right behind the relief. Because I’m the one who dragged them out there. I’m the one who insisted on the hunting trip.
Control masquerading as care.
Gideon’s words again. From back when I thought I had my shit together.
Turns out I don’t know a goddamn thing.
“I remember shooting it.” My voice comes out flat. Dead. “In the head. Point blank. And it just. Kept. Coming.”
“Grizzly skulls are thick.” Ethan’s tone is matter of fact. Clinical. “Deflection happens. You did what you could.”