Page 29 of Tarnished Hands

“You should probably come.” Those words continue to echo in the back of my head as they did all the way here.

I hate them.

I don’t love many things in this world, but I sure as shit love him.

Walking into the hospital room, I find him hooked up to so many machines, making so many sounds, it takes me a minute to even recognize him. His face is badly bruised.

“Please. You can sit with him.” A nurse walks in and goes over to him. “Are you family?” she asks.

“Yes. His brother. His only family.”

“Good. It’s best to have family around in these times.”

“How are the others?” I ask, not even sure if she knows.

She looks up at me with sympathetic eyes. “Tony was the only one badly injured. The others are all very lucky.”

“Will he walk again?” I ask.

“I’ll get the doctor to discuss it with you. I’m not sure I am the correct person to talk to about it.”

“Just tell me. Will my brother walk again?” I ask in frustration. “Please. This is my brother we’re talking about. I need to know.”

“From his chart, it seems no. I’m sorry.” She whispers, and I gulp around the lump in the back of my throat.

“He wanted to be a doctor,” I tell her. “He’s smart.” She glances at him and back at me before she walks out, telling me she’ll get a doctor to speak with me.

I sit next to Tony, touch his hand, and tell him everything will be all right.

Though now, not even I am sure of that.

He did something to his spine—something bad—that will put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

It breaks my damn heart because how is he going to be a doctor in a wheelchair? Is it even possible for him to do so? I stay by his side all week. He wakes and then drifts back off easily, barely saying a few words.

When he does fully wake, his face tells me he knows without me having to say it.

I’m not sure I want to say it.

To break his spirit like that.

I stay for another week, and his sadness eats away at me every day.

“You need to go. I’m going to do rehab and learn how to use the wheelchair. Go home,” he tells me.

“I want to be here for you.”

“You sitting here every day being a big saddo is depressing.”

“I’m not sad. I’m glad you’re doing better,” I tell him honestly.

“How’s Piper?” he asks, changing the subject. Truth be told, I haven’t messaged her, and she hasn’t reached out. She has my number. I know she does because I messaged her that night asking her to call me.

“Why are you asking?” I move around the bed, and his eyes track me.

“You like her, and you hate most people.”

“I do not,” I scoff.

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