Chapter 1 #3
He found himself lying under the bright lights of an operating theatre.
Were they going to shave his head? Maybe they already had.
He liked his hair. What if it grew back curly?
I have worse to fucking worry about than that.
It seemed wrong that they were going to operate and him not know why.
What if they had the wrong patient? What if they took off a bit of him that he was rather attached to?
A needle went into his hand and unconsciousness beckoned with an irresistible finger.
He flowed back out to sea.
River woke back in the room he was used to, not hurting, but feeling exhausted.
While no one was with him, he tried to speak because maybe they’d worked a miracle.
He quietly said his name. “Pimg.” Fuck. So, no miracle.
The disappointment was crushing. He couldn’t help keep trying to speak now, but when he blurted a load of rubbish, he wondered why he’d bothered.
This wasn’t going to be a quick fix. He heard nurses moving around, chatting to each other, chuckling, and he was filled with rage.
Why me? What the fuck have I done to deserve this?
He didn’t mean to be difficult but not being able to understand what anyone was saying was driving him crazy.
He moved from docile compliance to sullen rage.
But when he thrashed, when he didn’t cooperate, they gave him drugs to calm him down.
So he turned in on himself, kept his mouth shut and his eyes closed.
He felt like a little kid thinking that if he closed his eyes, no one could see him.
It hadn’t worked then and it didn’t now.
River was medevacked back to the UK. Buildings were familiar.
So were uniforms. The language wasn’t. He wished his mum was alive.
He dragged memories of her out of the box he’d locked them in, remembering the things they’d done together, the times he’d made her laugh, the way she’d written down the funny things he’d said in a little book, the jewellery she used to wear, her outrageous earrings, her bohemian clothes, how she smelt, how much she loved him. No one would ever love him as much.
Sometimes he really thought she was with him, only for him to realise he’d been dreaming. He told himself to lock the memories up again. They did him no good. His past was a secret that had to stay hidden.
When a guy showed him photos of food, River assumed he was expected to pick out what he wanted to eat but he closed his eyes and rolled onto his side.
He didn’t understand why he was being so fucking awkward, particularly when he ended up with chicken curry when he’d have preferred the baked potato. Serves me right.
How many days since I fell? He couldn’t even ask that. Tears filled his eyes and he furiously blinked them away.
Another doctor came. River assumed he was a doctor.
He had no idea of the guy’s name, though he introduced himself.
Or maybe he didn’t. He could have been saying he thought River was a crap actor.
The man was maybe in his forties, had silver hair and grey eyes, and came armed with an iPad.
River got that he was supposed to mimic what the picture showed.
Lift his left arm, then his right leg. Put his hands together.
Do the fucking hokey cokey… Even with broken fucking legs…
But the guy smiled, nodded and produced an apple from one pocket, an orange from the other.
There was a picture of an apple on the iPad.
River guessed he wanted him to pick up the apple.
That got him a smile. But when the pictures were changed to what he assumed were words for apple and orange, and the images were removed, he didn’t recognise them.
Dr Grey, River had to think of him as something, didn’t seem perturbed and that pissed him off.
He should be per-fucking-turbed. River was.
There were a whole load of other tests and River knew he was failing.
Max turned up and Dr Grey talked to him.
The serious expressions on their faces triggered another flood of raw fear.
It was as if River had been tied to a train track and lay listening to the rumble of the approaching train, unable to do anything but wait for disaster.
He chewed his lip until he tasted blood.
This can be sorted, right? Cells in his brain had been damaged.
Was it permanent? Temporary? How long would it take for him to get better?
What if he never got better? He panicked at the thought of being trapped in his own private world, unable to communicate with anyone except himself.
He was going to get very bored, very fast. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tubes came out. He could pee on his own.
They started physio. He couldn’t walk but that didn’t stop them.
He tried to copy what they showed him to do but he didn’t see that he’d made any progress.
He hurt, he ached and he could say nothing that made sense to them, only to him.
They tried to teach him to speak. How could it be so fucking hard?
Babies learned! He couldn’t even manage yes and no.
Dila came once with Max. Played the girlfriend.
Cried over him. Hmm. She signed autographs for the nurses and left.
Barney came again. River didn’t want to see him.
He’d fallen because Barney hadn’t climbed.
He knew it wasn’t fair to blame him, but River needed to blame someone.
No one else visited. He had friends! At least he thought he did.
Maybe Max was stopping them coming. He wished he’d stop Barney.
Every day, he woke hoping for something that never happened.
No miracle. No turning back the clock. Fear subsided into resignation.
He didn’t feel…well, but he didn’t feel desperately ill.
His broken bones were healing. If it hadn’t been that he couldn’t speak or understand anyone, he wouldn’t have felt that he needed to be in a hospital bed.
I want to go home.