Page 80 of Shattered Hate

Trayton

Iblink again, squinting against the harsh fluorescent glare. The sterile white walls and the rhythmic beeping of machines tell me I’m in a hospital. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper, and there’s a dull ache in my chest with every breath.

“Trayton?” a soft voice calls from beside me. I turn my head, wincing at the movement, to see Bray sitting in a chair next to the bed. His eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles underneath betraying his exhaustion.

“Dax—” I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. Bray quickly reaches for a cup of water on the bedside table, helping me take a small sip. The cool liquid soothes my dry throat.

“Where’s Daxton?” I manage to croak out, panic rising in my chest as I struggle to sit up. Bray gently pushes me back down.

“He’s alive, Tray. He’s in the ICU. The doctors say he inhaled a lot of smoke, and he has some burns, but they’re hopeful.”

Relief floods through me, but it’s quickly followed by a wave of fear. “I need to see him,” I insist, trying again to push myself up.

Bray shakes his head. “You can’t right now. You’ve been out for two days, Tray. You inhaled a lot of smoke, too, and you have some pretty bad burns on your arm and back. You’ve had surgery.” I glance down at my arm, which is wrapped in bandages. “The doctors want you to rest.”

Two days? The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve been unconscious for two whole days while Daxton has been fighting for his life. The thought makes me feel sick.

“I don’t care what the doctors say,” I rasp, my voice still weak. “I need to see him, Bray. Please.”

Bray’s face softens with sympathy. “I know you do, Tray. But you’re not strong enough yet. Give it a day or two, okay? Focus on getting better so you can be there for him when he needs you.”

I want to argue, but exhaustion washes over me in a heavy wave. My eyelids feel like lead weights. “Promise me you’ll tell me if anything changes with him,” I mumble, already drifting off.

“I promise,” Bray says softly. “Now rest.”

As I drift in and out of consciousness over the next day, snippets of conversations filter through. Nurses checking my vitals, doctors discussing my condition, Bray and the others taking turns sitting with me. But my mind keeps circling back to one thought: Daxton.

When I finally manage to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, I immediately press Bray for more information. “How is he? Has there been any change?”

Bray’s expression is guarded. “He’s still in critical condition, Tray. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” I demand.

Bray sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “He hasn’t woken up yet. They’re worried about potential brain damage from oxygen deprivation.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

The world seems to tilt on its axis as Bray’s words sink in. Brain damage. The possibility hangs in the air like a dark cloud, threatening to suffocate me. I struggle to draw in a breath, my chest tight with fear and desperation.

“I need to see him,” I insist, my voice cracking. “Now.”

Bray hesitates. “Tray, you’re still not—”

“I don’t care,” I interrupt, struggling to sit up despite the pain lancing through my body. “I’m going to see him if I have to crawl there myself.”

Bray must see the determination in my eyes because he sighs in resignation. “Let me talk to the nurse.”

An hour later, after much negotiation and a stern lecture from my doctor, I’m being wheeled down the hallway to the ICU. My heart pounds harder with each passing second, anticipation and dread churning in my stomach.

We stop outside a room, and I can see Daxton through the glass. My breath catches in my throat. He looks so small and fragile lying there, surrounded by machines, tubes snaking from his body. His skin is pale, from what I can see, although one whole arm and a part of his face are covered by bandages.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Bray asks gently.

Kal has a firm grip on my shoulder. I later find out that Kal has been pulling strings for me through his dad to get me down here.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Bray wheels me into the room, positioning my chair next to Daxton’s bed. Up close, the damage is even more apparent. His chest rises and falls with mechanical precision, a ventilator breathing for him. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

With trembling fingers, I reach out to touch his hand, careful to avoid the IV line. His skin feels cool beneath mine.

---