Chapter 24 Cooper
Cooper
Lord have mercy.
Assuming he's watching and not chuckling to himself from above. Or clocking out early from this shit-show.
I'm freezing. And not in a good way. It's not the chilly embrace of your lungs on an evening run, more similar to a cellular crystallization that makes your bones shiver.
Each breath I pull in is like shards of ice, scraping down my trachea.
My body shakes against the mud as I crawl toward the brush.
Why won't he let me go?
The question rattles my brain, overcoming the rush of the water. Is it some kind of test? A lesson in endurance or resilience?
A raw, ludicrous giggle escapes my chest, coming out as an exerted cough. My body is a constellation of agony. Every muscle pleads, every joint groans. I feel like a pin-cushion cadaver in my own anatomy lab, stabbed a hundred times by invisible needles of pain and cold.
Who would volunteer their body up for science? Idiots like me, that's who. Idiots who followed a masked killer into the woods and expected a fairytale.
It's so dark around me. The dim light of the moon is being clouded out. The only sound, besides the river's hungry roar, is the frantic chattering of my own teeth—a pathetic, rhythmic percussion trying and failing to break the unnerving silence of the brush.
I try to stand, but my body screams in rebellion. My head throbs as I try to rise, forcing me down to the cold ground. I can feel the bruises starting to form. Everywhere. My torso, my ass cheeks.
The fall was brutal. For one blissful moment of impact, there was nothing. A void. I was hoping I wouldn't wake up, to suffer the consequences of my actions.
But here we are.
I guess the universe had a strict policy against easy outs. My lungs drag in the frozen air, trying to stabilize, each gasp is a struggle. My heart beats in my chest in sync with the throbs of my brain.
I can't move more than a few feet. There is no warmth here. Only the bone-biting breeze that seems to slice through my wet clothes, the cold fabric clinging to my skin, a wetsuit padded with Kevlar. The fall might not have been fatal, but the cold will be. It’s a slow, insidious predator.
I curl my body tight, a futile, instinctual attempt to preserve what little heat I have left, my entire frame wrecked with violent, uncontrollable shivers.
I never thought I would be a victim to hypothermia. The irony is almost beautiful. A med student who knows all the stages—the furious shivers, the confusion, the paradoxical feeling of burning heat, the organ failure—slowly progressing.
I'm helpless to stop it.
Reed.
Dr. Quinn. He could save me. I know he could.
He could pour heat back into me, warm the frozen insides of my bones with the furnace of his own chest, wrap me in those forearms until the shivering fades.
The thought makes my brain feel warm and fuzzy, a dangerous, albeit comforting lie.
I can almost feel his weight around me, the ghost of his heat against my back.
His fingers caressing my navel as he holds me and tells me everything is going to be alright.
And I'll believe him. Whatever velvety words that spill from his mouth. I'll embrace them as if they are divine gospel.
The shivering stops.
The frantic chattering of my teeth is gone, leaving only the river's rush to pierce the air. A profound lethargy bleeds into my limbs, heavy and burning. This is the paradox, my flashcards scream at me. You feel warm because your body is failing.
I can't stop thinking about my life recently.
The boredom, the endless memorization, the gray filter that used to cloud my vision.
It's gone. All of it. It's been replaced with a brilliant, violent, splatter of memories.
Chases under the moon. The scent of pine and sweat.
The weight of a predator's gaze that saw every ugly, wonderful part of me.
I've been lucky.
It's an absurd thought as I am accepting my fate, but I've had the time of my life. Everything I secretly hoped for, everything I ached for in the back of my fucked up head, I was given. I was blessed. I was chosen. I was claimed by a force of nature.
It wasn't a happily ever after. It was something better. So much fucking better.
The edges of the world soften, blurring into a black curtain. It's cozy and inviting. There's no more cold. No more ache from my bruises. But I'm tired. Exhausted.
I'm ready to see you Carson, ready to beat the shit out of you for leaving me alone. For making me the one who had to live with the ghost of you in every room, in every proud smile from Mom and Dad that was meant for you.
Maybe I'll tell you about him. About Reed. You'd hate him. You'd think he was a monster. And you'd be right. But Carson, he made me feel like life is worth living. Like all of the pain of the last ten years has meant something.
I feel the warmth burning through me like a beam from the surface of the sun.
My head spins in a rabbit hole of thoughts.
I'm in a kitchen. A beautiful, normal kitchen with sublime granite countertops in a beautiful, normal house in Edina.
It's the golden hour of the morning, catching the hair of the golden retriever.
It's quiet except for the coffee machine whirring in the background.
And he's there. Reed. Dr. Quinn. My Reed. He's wearing grey sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt, his forearms flexing as he butters the toast. He looks happy, smiling even. He slides a plate across the island to me, his knuckles grazing mine. A simple touch that sends a rush of thrill through me.
"Eat, little mouse," he says, his voice soft and commanding all at once. "We have a busy day."
A busy day. I know what that means. It doesn't involve any more flashcards.
It means going down to the basement, recently soundproofed, fit with an industrial drain and a wall of tools that would make any serial killer salivate.
We'll go down there together. He'll practice a chokehold on me, and he'll have me do the same.
His voice murmuring in my ear. "Tighter, Cooper. You have to mean it".
Our neighbors will love us. We'll host barbecues.
We are the charming, enigmatic couple on the block who are on the neighborhood watch.
Dr. Quinn, a brilliant ER doc, and his cheerful, blonde husband.
If they notice the bags of lime we sometimes bring home from the garden center, they won't ask.
If they wonder about the occasional, guttural scream muffled by our superior insulation, they'll chalk it up to a passionate marriage.
Our golden retriever will be ridiculously spoiled and enormously fluffy.
We'll name him Reaper. The kids on the street will adore him, and he'll take treats from their hands with the softest mouth.
They'll never know he's been trained to rip out the jugular if anyone else dares to touch the basement door.
He'll sleep at the foot of our bed and be our beautiful and fluffy protector.
At Christmas, we'll have the most dreadfully decorated house. White lights. A sinful wreath on the door, constructed from mint and wrist bones. Candace will visit, and Ava too.
Candace will stroll in, dumping a bottle of bourbon on the counter and immediately critique my holiday decor. "The tension is off, buttercup," she'll say, pointing a dagger-like finger at the garland of hemlock I've draped over the archway. "It's sagging. Amateur hour."
"I'd focus less on my garland and more on your outfit," I'll snark back while I put skull-shaped cookies in the oven. "You look like a divorced Mrs. Claus who's trying to entice some stray elves."
Reed will keep quiet, lean against the doorway, smirking while he lets us banter chaotically. His murderous forearms bulging and making me beg for a punishment.
Ughhh it's fucking perfect.
And Ava. Fucking Ava. She'll stand in the foyer for a second, her eyes as wide as full moons.
Her eyes will glaze over the skull cookies and the macabre decor, taking in the wreath of finger bones and the mistletoe hanging from a noose.
She'll blink a couple of times before a devious smirk crawls across her lips.
"Only you Coop," she'll say, shaking her head.
"Only you could make serial killer decor chic and grisly at the same time.
I brought the wine. It's a vintage. I figured we'd need something to pair with whatever the hell this is.
" As she gestures vaguely at the hemlock garland.
"It's called a vibe, Ava," I'll laugh, pulling her into a hug. She'll smell like overrated fanfic and the library, a comforting, familiar scent among the chaos.
"It's called begging for jail time," she'll mutter into my shoulder, but hugging me back fiercely. "Your mom called me, by the way. She wanted to know if you were coming home for Christmas. I told her you were busy. Doing a special, extended rotation in Wilderness Medicine."
"And applied forensic dismemberment," Candace will chime in, pouring four generous glasses of bourbon without being prompted.
Ava snorts like her usual self. "For real, Cooper. Are you… okay?"
I look past her, to where Reed is watching, his dark eyes soft in the twinkling light of our murderous home. Reaper at his feet, thumping his tail against the hardwood floor.
"Okay? Ava, I've never been better in my entire fucking life."
Her gaze drifts around the room. "You have a wreath made of…
phalanges. You're baking cookies in the shape of skulls.
Your dog is named after the Grim Reaper.
" Reaper gets up, nails clicking against the hardwood, moving to her side and begging desperately for attention.
"Cooper, be for real. Is this a cry for help?
Because my help currently maxes out at loading ten dollars into your commissary account. "
"I told you," Candace calls from the kitchen island, slicing up an apple with a butcher's knife. "He's thriving. It's disgusting."