CHAPTER 19
Bradford
There’s a woman here. She’s been here before. At least, I think she has. “Who are you again?” I’m feeling fucking tetchy as hell. Something is gnawing hard at me, but I don’t know what the fuck it is.
“I’m Dianna, Bradford,” she says patiently. “We’re working together to try and get you better.”
Better? Better? There’s nothing the fuck wrong with me, is there?
I look from right to left. The room is a fucking blur. It’s pissing me off. I stare at the woman. She has no facial features at all. The only reason I know she’s a woman is because of her voice and her long flowing hair.
Jesus, why the hell can’t I see anything? I claw at my face, but it fucking hurts. Who did this to me?
Suddenly, a rage erupts inside my chest. “That fucking CUNT!” I yell. “I’m gonna fucking kill the piece of shit!”
“Tell me who it is, Bradford.” Apparently, that’s my name. Dianne, Dianna—whatever the fuck she’s called—sits there quietly. It’s like she’s not even taking me seriously. This is DIRE, fuck it!
“I. Don’t. Fucking. Know.” I’m growling. I wish I did know. I wish I could find him. “He took EVERYTHING. The cunt fucked up my whole fucking life. He took… he took…” I’m panting now, balling up the bedsheets in my fists.
What did he take? Who did he take? Sudden panic explodes beneath my ribcage.
“I’ve gotta call him. I have to—” I scramble out of bed and run to the window.
“Bradford, you need to put something on,” Dianna says calmly.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I look down. I’m naked. You know what? I couldn’t give a shit. “It’s my fucking dick. Who cares? Don’t tell me you've never seen one before.”
I’m pacing the room. Dianna hands me some kind of white robe. “Put it on,” she says, a good deal more firmly than before.
“Fuck,” I grumble, struggling into the ugly cotton monstrosity and yanking it over my front. “Happy now?”
I scan the haze of my surroundings again. There’s a blue piece of furniture nearby. It’s a chair. Well, I’m pretty sure it is. Striding up to it, I trail my hands over the surface, then collapse into the cold vinyl. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. I want to cry. “I need to call him I need to call him I need to call him,” I whimper. I sound like a pathetic child, but once again, I could give two fucks.
Dianna approaches me. “I’ll find his number. You just need to tell me his name.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing’s coming. Try as I might, the gargantuan fuckup in my head won’t let me remember. “I don’t know.”
***
I’m in bed. It’s clammy. The mattress under me doesn’t seem to breathe. The pillow behind me crunches. My neck is sweaty. The backs of my legs are sticking to the sheet underneath me. I feel gross. Heaving my sore body off the stifling foam, I walk over to what seems to be a chest of drawers. Opening one, I see a pile of clothes. How the hell did they get in there? I rifle through them and find shorts. Undies. A deep blue t-shirt. Clutching my selection, I turn and spot a large person sitting down near the entrance to the room. I stare long and hard. I think it’s a woman. Yeah, she has massive tits. They’re almost busting out of her dark blue clothes. Come to think of it, I’m sure I’ve seen other people in those same clothes a lot lately. It’s a uniform. For what, though? The woman has her head bowed and she’s fiddling with something. The sight is kind of familiar. A phone. Yeah. She can’t take her bloody eyes off her phone. I really don’t want anyone around me right now. I need to be free. Turning to my right, I see a small, angled room with an open door. Maybe I might go in there.
“Where are you off to?” A voice sounds behind me. I swivel back and see it’s the big-boobed phone addict talking. I don’t say anything, just gesture vaguely at the small room and head in that direction. “Keep the door open a bit, please,” the woman calls after me. It seems like an odd request. What am I, a fucking child?
As I make my way through the open door, cold air whooshes over the wet fabric that’s clinging to my back. It feels revolting. I want to rip it off me. I’m still clutching something, though. That’s right. The clothes I found. Now I’m peering at a white object in front of me. It looks like a chair. Yes. It's plastic. I can feel the network of holes on the seat and the back. I dump the pile of clothes on it, then start to tug at the white cotton prison that’s suffocating my body. Suddenly, I spot the large woman sitting in full view through the open door. For some reason, this stops me undressing. Why? Why should I give a fucking toss about her plonked out there on her bloody phone?
I take a step backwards and my arm hits some kind of flowy nylon stuff. I hear the sound of something jiggling against metal above me. Oh, it’s a shower curtain. I think I’d be better off behind here. Ducking around, I pull the curtain across the rail in front of me and try to extricate myself from what I’m wearing. I’m wincing as I contort my arms, my torso, but eventually I manage to peel it from my skin.
Now I’m naked. I feel so… liberated. I want to be naked all the time. I run my hands over my stomach, my pecs. They’re hairy. It’s nice. My fingers strum over my nipples. Fuck, that feels good. It’s weird; like I’m touching myself for the first time ever. I reach down and wrap my hand around my dick. It’s firm. I’m rubbing it. God, I’d love to come.
I’ve forgotten why I’m in this room. My right hip bumps into cold metal. Fumbling around, I realise it’s a set of taps. The kind with levers. That’s right, I was going to have a shower. I yank on the levers and water cascades down on me. Fuck, it’s fucking freezing. A yelp escapes me and I jump straight out. Sticking my hand under the water, I feel it heating up. It’s better now. I heave a sigh of relief as I let the stream beat down on my back. My hand is around my dick again, but this time I’m hosing piss all over the floor. Oh, fuck me dead, I needed that. The relief rushing through my shaft makes me want to start jerking off. Yes, I have to do it right now. I don’t know why I’m stopping myself. It’s not like I ever did before. Or did I?
The water’s off now, but I’m still in the shower. Why? I peek out from behind the curtain. The big woman in dark blue is still there. Oh yes—I’m naked. And I’m rubbing the towel vigorously over my dick and balls. Reaching behind myself and buffing it between my arse cheeks. I like it. I run my fingers over the puckers of my arsehole, pushing one just inside the edge of it. Even better. Fuck, how do I not know this about my body?
Dropping the towel, I grab the t-shirt and pull it over my head. It’s tight. But it seems right. Maybe I like it that way. I look back over at the shorts and underwear dumped on the plastic chair. Do I really need them? My balls feel so nice like this. I’m not sure why, but suddenly the clothes are all on me. I’m dressed. I’m fresh and nice, but what I really want is to take everything off again. To go and lie down naked and find out everything that makes my body feel good.
I walk back out to the bed. It’s damp. I didn’t piss in it, did I? No. It’s damp where my back would have been. I fumble around, running my hand over the sheets. There’s one of those thick woven cotton blankets there. I can feel the waffly weave. It’s like those ones in hospitals.
Hospital. Is that where I am?
I’m pulling the blanket up to cover the bed. Tucking it in. It’s really neat. Am I good at this? I don’t know. But I’m tired. My chest hurts on the left side. It’s hard to breathe. I’m gonna lie down.
***
A woman comes into the room, followed by a man. I can’t see their faces, but she has long dark hair and the man is tall. “Hey, Braddy. I told you I’d bring him, didn’t I?” says the woman.
They’re closer now. I think I might know them. Maybe. There’s some kind of… familiarity.
“This is Nathan,” the woman says. “Do you remember him?”
The man is leaning right near me. “Can you see me, mate?” he asks.
His features are blurry as hell, but they’re there, at least. He’s smiling.
There’s a twinge of something in my head. “You’re Nathan.” My voice is resolute. “Yeah. You’re Nathan.”
“This could be a sign,” the woman says. Her voice sounds kind of urgent. “Call the nurse, Nath.”
He leans right over me. I think he’s looking for the buzzer. He must be, but I’m not really paying attention. His sweaty armpit is right near my face. I can smell him and it’s rousing something in me. Moving my head upwards, I sniff deeply and audibly. “Fuck, that’s hot,” I growl.
Behind us, the woman laughs. So does Nathan, who moves away.
“See, he likes my macho scent,” Nathan says, and the woman laughs harder. Now she’s absolutely pissing herself.
Something is twigging inside my fucked-up brain. I’m a teenager. Yes. At high school. All angst and self-hatred and constant wanking. But there’s a little kid somewhere. A tiny little kid that I loved more than anything. A little kid who followed me round all the time. Who wanted me to play dolls with her. Who was so young and innocent and there was no way I could ever yell at her.
The woman’s still laughing. She’s in hysterics. Nathan’s now pissing himself as well.
“You gotta stop, Summer,” he says. “I can’t fucking take it anymore.”
Summer.
Summer.
SUMMER. My sister. My little sister. Oh, God.
“Summer,” I gasp. Her eyes go wide. “What the hell happened? Where am I?” My head is spinning, but I’m looking around, trying my best to see things. I don’t remember my eyes ever being this bad. I have a sudden thought. “Bruno!” Right then, a woman flies at my bed. Her eyes are tear-stained. “Mum!”
Mum’s reaching out trying to touch me. She looks distraught, but she’s smiling. That radiant beam of hers.
“No, sweetie. Mum died.” Summer sounds deflated.
Oh, Jesus Christ. All too late I realise my gaffe. “Yeah. I know. Six years ago.” Oh, God. Bruno. “I have to call Bruno. Now.”
“Sweetie, you’ve said his name over and over. Who is he?”
“What do you mean? When did I say it?” Jesus, my head hurts. Right at the back. “Oh, bloody hell. Jarrod. Brendan !” I’m flying into a blind panic. “What happened to Brendan? Is he alright?”
Summer reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I feel sick. I can’t see her face. Is she smiling or commiserating? “Don’t worry. He’s recovering with Susannah from Guide Dogs,” she soothes. “He had to have surgery, but he pulled through fine. I’ve been calling for updates all the time.”
Things are rushing back to me at a rate of knots. They’re a complete jumble, but I’m trying my best to piece them together. “Jarrod smashed my phone when he found the texts from Bruno. Oh, God, Bruno …”
Summer’s trying to be careful. I can hear it in her tone. But her hand is squeezing the hell out of mine. “Is this someone you’re seeing? Is this why Jarrod did all this to you?”
“No.” I’m firm on this. It’s taking me a while, but I’m remembering the state of the apartment. The way that bastard destroyed my home. “Jarrod attacked me because I kicked him out. Told him I found his huge meth stash and called the cops on him. Bruno was just collateral damage. Jesus, Summer, I have to call him, but he’s overseas and I don’t have my phone and I don’t know his number.” I screw my eyes up. This is all getting too much. “Oh! My iPad…”
Summer sighs. “No, sweetie. The police didn’t find any phone or iPad at your place. Jarrod must have taken both of them.”
“Police?” I have so many questions, but I can’t quite work out what they are. My anxiety is shooting through the roof. My head is splitting in two.
“It’s fine, we can work this out,” Summer soothes. “You know his name, so you could contact him on Facebook or Insta.”
I’m racking my brain. This isn’t ringing a bell. Bloody hell. I whimper in frustration as fragments come dancing in front of my eyes. “No. He’s a technophobe and he hates social media.”
“What about his family?”
Family. The whirling in my head speeds up, but I’m grabbing at bits as fast as I can. A woman. Boys. Gabriela. Cl… Claudio. Oh, God. Italy. “They’re all overseas too. For the funeral.”
Summer thinks for a while. “You’ve got an Android, haven't you? So those numbers will be saved on your Google account. I’ve got my old Samsung phone. We’ll get you a new sim, get Telstra to port your number and you can call him. Do you know your Google password?”
I rack my brain. Surely I have it somewhere. I’m scanning my bedroom in my mind. My sofa bed. My piano. Oh, Jesus. My annihilated piano. My desk. Yes, my desk. Books on the shelf at the back. “Not off by heart, but it’s in the back of the bright green folder on my desk. I write them all down there.” I can just tell Summer’s rolling her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s gonna help me right now, isn’t it?”
***
After they’ve left, I come crashing down. There are blank spots everywhere. I can remember stuff that happened a while ago. But recently? So much is missing. It’s like only the most pressing events have found their way into my head. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m so, so tired.
At some point, I’m woken by a doctor. I can’t really concentrate on what he’s saying. Head trauma, he mentions. Unconscious. Brain bleed. Emergency surgery. Post-traumatic amnesia.
Information overload gets the better of me. “How long was I out for? How did I get here?” I’m interrupting, but I can’t help myself.
“You were brought in after a neighbour called the police. Following the surgery, you were unconscious for about a day. And Dianna has been helping you with the post-traumatic amnesia for nearly a week.”
I blanche. “A week? I’ve been like this for a week ?” I can’t believe it. I’ve lost an entire seven days. Bruno . I want to throw up. Bruno hasn’t heard from me in all this time.
The doctor continues in his officious manner. “The ophthalmologist has seen you about the tear in your left corneal graft. We’ve made you a follow up appointment with the corneal surgeon at the Eye Hospital on Monday.”
Right then, a nurse enters. “Sorry, doctor. Bradford’s drops are due.”
“What is it?” I ask, as she pulls down my eyelid and deposits the cold liquid. “Maxidex?”
“Yes. Every hour. They’re trying to reverse the graft rejection.”
I want to scream. Graft rejection. I’ve been here before. Several times. More eye surgery. Another transplant. What the hell else could go wrong?
***
Summer returns with the phone, sitting inches from me so I can see her better. “I’ve set it all up. Do you want me to log into Google for you?”
“Thanks.” Sudden realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. I must look like such a self-absorbed arsehole. “God, Summer, it’s so nice of you to run around doing all this stuff for me. I’m really sorry I’ve messed up your da… hang on, when the hell did you and Nathan get to Sydney?”
“I flew over when I heard what happened. You’d listed me as your next of kin. Nathan and the girls just got here yesterday.”
“Wait… you didn’t come just for me, did you?”
Summer laughs. “Well, I did, at least. We were coming anyway. I had all these big plans about showing up and surprising you.”
Showing up. My apartment. Oh, no. She’s been to my apartment. “Jesus. Was Jarrod there just now? At my place? You didn’t run into him, did you?”
“No, sweetie. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. It’s been taken care of.” She rubs my arm. That’s all you need to know for now , she means.
Her attention turns back to the phone she’s holding and she taps away at it. “Don’t worry, Summer. There’s no porn in my Google account. I keep it all on the iPad.”
She scoffs and slaps me on the wrist. “I don’t need to know that.”
“Ha! Don’t try and tell me you never perve at naked men.”
There’s a loaded look on Summer’s face. “I have my own hot naked man.” She stares at me for a moment. I can see she’s trying not to snigger.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She tosses her hair. “Anyway, I prefer to read smutty romance novels. So much more satisfying.” She places the phone in my hand. “Have a look. Can you see it at all?”
I hold it right next to my eyes, tilting it in all directions. My face falls. “No. It’s hopeless. Can you dial 101 for me?”
Summer taps at the phone again, then discreetly leaves the room. I slap the device to my ear. The first message plays. It’s Bruno and he sounds happy. Sorry he missed me. Maybe I’m asleep. He’ll try again when they land in Rome. I pull the phone away and squint hard at the keyboard icons. They’re big, and I can’t see the numbers, but I know where the four is located. Message saved. The next one, Bruno sounds concerned. One by one, the messages continue. I can hear the panic in his voice. He sounds baffled, bewildered. Eventually, he sounds sad. The devastation in his voice is a knife in the guts. Then I come to the worst of them all. Bruno is bawling. Unrestrained. Pleading with me. The agony I can hear is too much to bear.
I’m hyperventilating. All that’s stopping me from falling apart is the insatiable urge to speak to him.
“To return this call, press two, two,” the mechanical voice says. I squint as hard as I can, my finger shaking as I punch in the number. My head hurts so bad I feel like I might pass out. My chest aches. There are incessant sharp jabs in my fractured ribs, but it’s the pain deep inside that kills me the most. When the call goes to message bank, it’s the biggest blow of all. I can barely get any words out. “Bruno, I—”
That’s all I manage to say before things fade to black.