Page 5 of Downpour

After months, the soreness from the breathing tube had finally faded, and the uncontrollable coughing had subsided. Unfortunate, really, since it meant people expected me to carry on a conversation when they barged into my room unannounced.

There was nothing to say.

I despised the empty platitudes, the hollow niceties, the patronizing smiles, and the well-meaning sentiments.

But what I hated most was the goddamn itch in my hand.

I shut my eyes, grasping at the fading memory of what it felt like to flex my muscles and move.

But I did.

My hand tilted to the side and brushed against a throw pillow. The coarse textured fabric soothed my itch.

Did I actually…I concentrated on my wrist—on the muscles there—as if I could will them back to life.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and the itch intensified. And then…

I moved.

My hand shifted left and right as I scratched the itch against the pillow.

NINE MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

“What the hell?”Christian stood in the doorway with his jaw on top of his boots.

I raised the hospital-grade cup to my lips and sipped through the bent straw.

The plate slipped from my brother’s hand and crashed to the floor. Mashed potatoes splattered as peas scattered across the hardwood. A pang of sadness gripped me as the meatloaf landed on his boot.

Damn it… I loved meatloaf.

The scent had been taunting me for an hour, and I was starving.

Christian gaped. “I must be hallucinating from when I hit my head on the tractor earlier.”

“Sorry,” I said, setting the cup on the tray beside the raised bed. The mattress felt like it had been sewn from Satan’s flesh. I had it to thank for the ache in my shoulders and neck.

He stared with disbelief etched on his face. “Do that again.”

I glanced up. “I’d rather not. It hurts like hell.”

“What the fuck, man?” He ran his hand down his beard, his jaw tightening and his lips trembling.

I gritted my teeth as I watched the tears stream down his face. I hadn’t shed a tear since waking in that hospital bed. So why was he crying?

“Ray, what the fuck? You’re moving!”

“I was thirsty.”

He didn’t move for the plate, the squished potatoes, or the meatloaf. “Y-you...picked it up.”

“I just learned how to use my hand again,” I said. “Don’t make me use it to flip you off.”

I didn’t mention the month of therapy I’d spent working on it.

Apparently, that itch was a good thing.

ONE YEAR AFTER THE ACCIDENT

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