FIVE #2
She's still alive, she's still breathing.
The EMTs have stepped back to let the emergency room staff take over. The female EMT sends me a sympathetic look before she turns to walk away.
I stand in the corner of the room as the nurses and doctors move like poetry in motion—throwing orders around, hooking Emerald up to the machines, and handing over instruments before they're even asked.
Save her. Please.
My mind categorizes the injuries they spoke of, at least the ones I could understand. Broken nose and jaw. Definitely broken ribs, maybe a punctured lung. Significant bruising. Scratches on her back from being dragged. I'm fucking sure there's more, not ones that can be seen by eye or by machine.
I can feel it like it's in my own chest, my own mind. As much as I'm focused on them healing Emerald physically, making sure her fucking soul doesn't leave this earth—not now, not before me—I can feel that this is going to change everything.
I practically massacred her with my words.
Then, like a fucking cruel twist of fate, someone massacred her physically.
Will she survive this?
Will we?
First things first...
"Come back to me, baby..." I keep repeating the same wish, praying that she can hear me. Her blood pressure rose in the ambulance after I spoke to her, and I choose to believe that my wife heard my voice and is trying to fight her way back to me.
I don't care if she's angry at me. I don't care if she hates me .
This earth hasn't gotten enough of her brightness yet.
She hasn't done everything she's wanted to yet.
I haven't taken her to Iceland to see the elf houses.
I haven't gotten her the cat she's been asking for.
I haven't built her the forever home.
We haven't had the kids we dream about...
It hasn't been enough time with her.
"You're the husband?"
The words pull me out of my thoughts, spoken by a blonde doctor—Dr. Rossi. She only spares me a brief glance before she focuses back down on my wife.
"Yes," I sniff, reaching up to wipe my nose with my wrist. I haven't even realized I've been crying; all of my tears were freezing out in the cold, and now drip almost uncomfortably hot down my cheeks.
They hook Emerald up to a bunch of machines, and now the sound of her heart rate fills the room.
A dark-haired doctor does a double-take when he sees me, his eyes going wide and awed.
"Oh, shit—you're Haymaker —"
My body tenses.
"Dr. Paul," Dr. Rossi snaps, shooting him a firm look before she asks me. "Does Emerald have any allergies?"
"P-Penicillin," I stutter. "She's allergic to penicillin."
"Is she pregnant or possibly pregnant?"
"No," I whisper, thinking of the IUD she had placed three years ago. We thought that when it was time for it to come out, we would be ready to start trying for kids. It was the dream we always spoke about, expanding our family when things settled down with hockey, and we were in our forever home .
"Emerald, can you hear me?" Dr. Paul asks, leaning over her. He gently pries one swollen eyelid open, shining a penlight into her pupil. I flinch when I see her eyes, completely bloodshot, the green of them vivid. "I got dilation. Emerald, squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
I take a step forward, as if my presence will calm Emerald and allow her to move, to show signs of life, to want to fight to survive.
"Please, baby," I choke out, my jaw clenched hard enough for my teeth to crack. "Emerald, come back—please, baby, come back—"
The monitors erupt into rapid, piercing alarms.
Dr. Rossi and Dr. Paul move easily, a flash of scalpels, words I don't understand, their meanings exchanged, orders barked harshly. I know, deep down, it's not good.
"Emerald—"
"Mr. Sawyer," a hard hand is clamped on my shoulder, and I turn to see a tall nurse. His body is almost as large as mine, but his face is soft and sympathetic. "Let's step outside so the doctors can work—"
"No!" The protest rips from my throat on instinct. "She's my wife—I-I can't—"
"Sir, we're trying to save your wife, and you are in the way. Please, step outside so that we can focus on saving her," Dr. Rossi tells me, her voice brooking no argument. The words are logical; they make sense; they need room; they're the experts; they can save her; I can't.
And yet...
"Come on," the nurse says, his hand tightening on my shoulder and guiding me out of the room.
I keep my eyes on Emerald's unmoving body as they work on her. The last thing I see is a scalpel sliding between her ribs, a flash of blood against pale skin before someone blocks my view.
"I'm Nurse Robby,” the nurse says, his voice meant to be soft and soothing. “They're going to take amazing care of Emerald; she's in great hands."
I allow myself to be led away, not able to stop glancing over my shoulder to the room Emerald is in, but one of the Nurses has pulled a curtain for privacy.
I'm momentarily happy about that, not wanting anyone walking by to gawk at my vulnerable wife, but not being able to see her only ramps up my anxiety.
Nurse Robby abruptly stops as we walk through two automatic doors, making me glance up to see every single eye in the waiting room gawking at me. Some mouths drop open, others whisper and point, and some take out their phones to discreetly take photos.
"Oh shit—is that Haymaker?"
"Why is he here?"
"Yo, did you catch the game? Did he get hurt?"
"Nah, they lost in a shutout. Why is he here?"
"Twitter's saying something happened to his wife."
"Here, come this way, Mr. Sawyer," Robby pulls me back from the growing hissed chatter that feels like it's being channeled into my skull.
Hollow, I follow him down a hallway to a small room with a couch, a table with magazines scattered across it, and a couple of toys in the corner of the room.
"This is a private waiting room. You can stay in here while we take care of Emerald. It might be a couple of hours."
Nodding, I walk over to the couch and sit down, all of the energy draining from my body.
"Is there anyone I should call?"
"No," I whisper. I know there are people I need to call— Emerald's parents first and foremost. They need to hear it from me before they find out on social media, but right now I need a fucking minute to process.
All I can focus on is the image of my wife in the snow. My hands clench and unclench into fists as I try to steady my breathing.
"One of the nurses will be in to give you some paperwork to fill out," Nurse Robby says, keeping his voice soft. I nod once more, leaning my elbows on my knees and running my hands through my hair. The cuts on my knuckles tear open once more.
He motions to them. "You want me to patch that up?"
"No," I shake my head, watching a bubble of blood pool out of the scab. It's an odd sight, comparing my tiny little injuries on my knuckles, on my lips, to the gruesome state of my wife.
Why am I sitting here unharmed while my wife is battered and fighting to stay alive?
And the more I think, the angrier I get.
I don't know who harmed my wife, what sick fuck put his hands on her. But I will find him, and I will repay him tenfold. And anyone else that had a single fucking thing to do with it.
I curl my hand into a fist, pulling the cut open even more, causing more blood to pool and drip down the back of my hand.