Chapter 1 Waking Up is Hard to Do #2
"I don't fucking know." I tell him. "All I know is my head fucking hurts and there's a tattoo on my hand that wasn't there before."
"Your... tattoos?"
"Tattoos?" The room spins, and I wonder if I'm on the brink of falling back into the coma, followed by wondering if that would be a mercy.
The nameless doctor holds up his hands in a gesture that once again makes me feel as if I'm some escaped fucking zoo animal.
"It's very important that you remain calm, Cormac," he speaks so lowly that I have to quiet and slow my breathing to hear him. "Your brain and body are still on the mend."
"What the fuck happened to me?" I grit through my teeth, my voice more sinister than I ever remember it being.
"Watch it," the armed guard in the corner calls. It's the first thing he's said since entering, his tone heavy with the implication of consequences.
"He's fine." To my surprise, the doctor defends me, keeping his focus entirely on me and not the guard hidden in the shadows, waiting for the slightest provocation to attack.
"Cormac, I know this must be a very difficult time for you.
You're confused, you don't feel well, I'm sure you're a little scared that an armed man is watching you. "
"I'm not scared," I lie. "I'm pissed. What possible reason could there be for someone who can't hardly lift their god damn arm to have an officer watching them with one hand constantly on the gun in their waistband?"
The doctor sighs, pulling up a chair to sit beside me rather than stand over me.
The change makes my skin crawl. Whatever happened to me has to be terrible. So traumatizing that he needs to come down to my level to break the news, not as a doctor, but man-to-man.
"Cormac," he begins, placing my file on his lap. "You mentioned Balor. How long ago did you start your company?"
I blow out a breath, fighting to stay centered enough not to pass back out, "I started it when I was 23, I think?"
The doctor slowly nods, "How old are you now, Mr. Fomori?"
"I'll be 28 in February."
"February of this year?" he glances down at his papers before returning his blue eyes to me.
"Well, this upcoming year, 2021, yeah," I nod.
He told me Happy New Year when he came in, and the nurse mentioned it had been three months.
But that might mean the end of December, or possibly the first of January.
No one has made a point of telling me the exact date, and it's not written on that silly whiteboard on the back of the door to my room.
"Cormac," the doctor repeats my name in that way that people only do when they have no good news for you. "Do you have anyone you can call? Anyone you trust?"
"No," I laugh. "Unless you wanna track down my old man so he can show up and try to scam you for the morphine I didn't want."
He barely holds back a grimace, "I see."
"Just tell me. It can't be that bad," I chuckle. "I can see you, hear you. I can feel every fucking inch of my body even though they all hurt. I'm wiggling my toes, see?"
"Yes," he nods. "Your physical recovery has been remarkable. Your body is very strong. But your brain is where the damage was done, and there's no easy way to tell you the truth of it. You're going to have many questions that I can't answer."
Something in his wording sends alarm bells through me. Have I always been this paranoid? "Because you don't have the answers or because you don't think I should have them?" I finally ask.
"Both," he answers honestly. "When I said Happy New Year, it's because in about," he checks his watch, "forty five minutes, we are going to be entering into the year 2026."
A scoff slips from my lips, "2026? Now you're just fucking with me."
Dr. Sad-Eyes— as I've taken to calling him in my head— looks at me, his expression full of sympathy.
"There's no way," I continue when he doesn't respond. "You mean to tell me I'm missing the last," I count on my fingers because there's just no fucking way, "five years of my life? Just... poof? Fucking gone?"
"You suffered a traumatic brain injury, Mr. Fomori," he smooths his white coat, patting the chest pocket as if to double-check that it's still there and full of whatever doctor stuff he keeps in there. "Amnesia is fairly common with injuries as severe as yours."
"And when do the memories come back?" I pry, my voice cracking.
He sighs, "Sometimes within hours. Sometimes never. The human brain is a powerful thing. An incredible organ. But it is fragile, malleable. There's no telling exactly how the rest of your healing will proceed."
The room suddenly feels far too small. There's no air in here either.
The window screams my name, even though there's an increasingly agitated guard sitting beside it.
I throw the thin blanket off and haphazardly kick my legs off the bed.
"Cormac," Sad-Eyes stands suddenly. "Please don't try to get up.”
"I have to," I wheeze, tearing all the stupid pieces of tape off my head and throwing them to the side, followed shortly by my IV. "I can't fucking breathe. I need air."
"Mr. Fomori," he pleads urgently. "Please calm down."
But I can't even hear him, not over the roaring in my ears or the added sluice of pain in my arm from the bleeding hole I just ripped open. Warm crimson slithers down my arm, smearing onto the IV pole thing I use to lift myself off the bed.
Every movement of my muscles is complete agony, like I'm trapped in quicksand instead of walking on solid ground. I use the stainless steel tree on wheels that holds another bag still connected to my body underneath the hospital gown, filled with what can only be urine.
Jesus Christ.
Not only am I missing five years of my life, I also have a fucking catheter stuck up my fucking dick.
I stumble to the window, pulling frantically on it, only managing to smear more blood everywhere.
I think the guard is yelling at me. Actually, I think several of them are.
But I can't hear anything besides the swirling in my head, screaming at me over and over again that I'm missing the last half of a decade.
I place my palms against the cool glass, leaning my face against it, too, too fucking hot to even think straight.
"Stand down!" Dr. Sad-Eyes voice finally cuts through the fog. "He's not hurting anyone. He's having a panic attack. Give him some god damn room."
As my mind focuses again, the bright overhead lights show my reflection staring harshly back at me. But I hardly recognize the man before me.
Where a strong, tall, handsome man used to be is little more than a frail, stick-thin creature that's been painted all over with art.
The room spins as my eyes land on a neck that can't possibly be mine.
"Is that a fucking bat?"
Before I can get the answer to that question, the spinning room fills with black spots, and the last thing I see before going under again is the crisp white ceiling as it falls away from me.