Chapter 40 #3
“Luke, we should probably go to the hospital,” I say softly, brushing a hand gently through his wet hair. I’m met with a fortress of resistance as he shakes his head.
“No,” he says hoarsely but firmly. “No hospital.”
When I try and insist, he uses what little strength he has left to physically push me away. I don’t let him go too far, but I don’t fight against him. He gives me a look that speaks more than words ever could—a look of anguished betrayal and stubborn pride.
“I’m not going to the hospital. I can’t. If you try and m—make me, I’ll leave,” he proclaims.
“Fine. No hospital.” I have no choice but to concede, even though it goes against every fiber of my being. Letting him leave in this condition feels more reckless.
He gives me a wary look, trying to decide whether or not I’m lying to him. After a minute, he must conclude that I’m not because he nods and settles again with a heavy sigh. Then he looks around and appears to realize that we’re still sitting in my shower and that he’s soaked to the bone.
“Why am I wet?” he asks with a sniff.
I frown in disbelief. “You don’t remember coming in and turning on the shower?”
He shakes his head, his brow furrowing.
“Luke… How the fuck did you get here?”
“I drove…I think.”
“Jesus Christ.” I frown. “It’s a wonder you made it here at all in this state.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Can you tell me what happened now?”
Luke shakes his head, his jaw clenching slightly.
It’s like he’s hit with a new wave of anguish as he thinks about it again, fresh tears coming to his eyes.
He looks down at the floor, his brow pinched in agony, and I realize he’s not ready to go back there yet.
My questions will have to wait a little longer.
“We don’t have to talk about it now,” I say. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes, and I’ll clean you up.”
Luke lets me help him off the floor, swaying a little unsteadily on his feet, looking like he’s going to pass out.
Whether through sheer determination or stubborn will, he staves it off and follows me out of the shower.
I grab him a set of sweatpants and one of my softest fleece hoodies, and I help him peel out of the soaked and bloodstained clothes.
While I work, I carefully examine the damage.
He winces in pain every so often as a particular movement exacerbates an area where he was beaten, a new bruise forming under the skin.
After gently cleaning off the blood on his face, I can see that the cuts aren’t that deep, but there are more than a few of them.
Every time he swallows or takes a deep breath, he groans in pain from the way it moves his throat.
Luke doesn’t fight me as I carefully clean and bandage the wounds. He just sits there with his eyes closed, letting me work. When it comes time for him to stand and walk to the bed, he very nearly does pass out, so I scoop him up in my arms and carry him instead.
“My head is killing me.” Luke groans, rubbing at his temples.
It takes all of my strength to resist the urge to suggest going to the hospital again. Instead, I say, “I think I’ve got some leftover pain meds I can give you.”
Rummaging around my bathroom medicine cabinet, I find a couple bottles of prescription pain pills left over from a few years ago when I had an abscessed tooth.
I never took them because they made me nauseous.
Bringing them all out to the bed, Luke looks at them, picking which one he wants, and then I set the rest of the bottles on the nightstand.
It takes Luke a few tries, but he manages to swallow it down with water, wincing at the pain it causes. I can only imagine how much it hurts. He asks for some tea, hoping the hot liquid will help soothe some of the pain, and I oblige.
Misty has patiently stayed nearby the whole time, and as Luke settles in bed, she rushes into his lap and begins purring like her life depends on it. He scoops her up, kissing her head, and I feel better knowing he’s not entirely alone as I go downstairs.
Standing over the kettle, my brain tries to picture how this must have happened.
All I can see are Frank’s hands wrapped around Luke’s throat, hard enough to kill, while Luke desperately tried to claw them off, fighting back with every fiber of his being.
The thought of him being unable to breathe, thinking he was going to die…
My blood boils with rage that only festers the longer I think about it. And yet, I feel so helpless.
After bringing the tea back upstairs, I watch as Luke sips it gingerly, but it seems to help a little.
We don’t speak. I just hold him against my chest, feeling how his body shudders with every tortured thought that flits through his head.
I know that type of pain firsthand—mental anguish.
However, before he’s finished the tea, the pain medication finally begins to kick in, and he starts to doze off.
I take the cup from his hands and put it on the bedside table, then help him lie under the covers, gently rubbing his back while Misty curls up in his arms.
He falls asleep quickly after that, his body succumbing to oblivion. Somehow, it doesn’t look entirely peaceful.
Lying beside him, I listen to the slight wheeze of his breaths. I can’t sleep, lost to my untamable imagination, and every few minutes, I check just to make sure Luke is still breathing. Part of me is terrified that if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up to find he’s not.