Page 3 of Fractured Grief
Chapter 2
Seb
Fuck!I slapped the floor by my head where I’d fallen,again,trying to get out of bed to get to the fucking bathroom.
My brain seemed to forget about my injuries, and every morning, I fell on my face. Pain radiated through my body, picking new ways to piss me off. My body didn’t even feel like mine anymore. I’d woken, yet again, to a tingling arm and completely numb leg. And because speech was another thing I was struggling with, I rarely spoke, even to curse. I could no longer do basic tasks I’d taken for granted.
I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the water-stained stucco ceiling, trying to gain control of myself and get up before someone came in and saw me splayed out on the floor. Then they’d lecture me about using my walking aids, and if I didn’t do as they said, they’d label me as a fall risk—again—and even more of my independence would be taken away.
Sitting up carefully, so as not to aggravate my injuries further, I waited for my legs to catch up with my brain, then braced myself on the chair by the bed. Gritting my teeth, I pulled myself into the wheelchair I was supposed to be using without too much additional agony. I wheeled myself into the bathroom to take care of business.
Once I’d finished, I washed my hands and caught sight of myself in the scratched and cloudy mirror above the sink. I barely recognized the person looking back. The amount of weight and muscle mass I’d lost due to twelve days in a coma was staggering.
I used to be the biggest brother of the four of us. Not anymore. I’d worked hard on my fitness and my body. I ran every morning, lifted weights, hiked, and moved around car parts at work to gain the bulk I’d been known for. Now I was weak and gaunt—a former shadow of myself. My usually bronzed skin was sullen and sickly. I had dark circles under my sunken eyes, and my thick beard was unruly. My long, wavy hair was an absolute mess. I looked like I’d been stranded on a deserted island for months. It was not a pretty picture.
Shaking my head, I rolled back to my bed to wait for my delicious breakfast of mush. Being here was draining my life force. Being stuck in a bed, with a body that wouldn’t cooperate, was slowly driving me insane.
It had been over a week in my new rehabilitation suite, and almost eight weeks since I’d been shot. My room was nicer than my previous, drab hospital room, but I felttrapped. I was still in a hospital, hurting, and surrounded by things that reminded me of my situation and broken body.
The walls were dark blue from the floor to about halfway up, then white to the ceiling. Everywhere you looked, there were mobility aids.
I fought the use of them in the hospital, but especially the wheelchair and walker that made me feel like I was one hundred years old. I’d been so frustrated with my injuries and recovery that I’d resented all of it. I’d become angry and irritated at the slightest thing. Every time I looked at the battered and worn walker, a rage bubbled inside me that seemed to have a life of its own.
Apparently, I’d hit my head when I was shot, but I didn’t remember. This feeling of pulsing ire had settled inside me like a foreign body, flaring to the surface unexpectedly and sometimes for no reason at all.
My emotions were on a hair trigger, too. I’d mostly managed to hide these outbursts from Ma and my brothers, but the doctors and nurses had caught the brunt of it.
Speaking of Ma, she waltzed into my room. She was finally back to her sunny and sophisticated self. She wore one of her signature sundresses with a matching cardigan, leggings, and boots. Her long hair was in a bun on the top of her head, and she wore minimal makeup. She was a beautiful woman who never looked her age. Even after the challenge of raising me and my three brothers, losing my father suddenly three years ago, and my recent hospital stay, she continued to be the ray of sunshine and positivity we all knew and loved.
“Kala xypnitouria gie mou,” she called out in Greek as she entered.
Quickly schooling my features, I tried to put on my best smile. “Mor-ning, Ma,” I forced out, slowly, my voice rough from lack of use. I had to focus to get the correct words out. My stutter wasn’t a common side effect, just a lucky bonus. Suffering from a stroke at thirty-two had completely fucked up my system.
“How are you feeling today?” Ma spoke as she shuffled around me and fussed with the pillows at my back.
Closing my eyes, I prayed for strength. “F-i-ne, Ma-a.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” Matsked. “You need to be honest, and there’s no point sitting here in pain if they could be doing more.”
“Sor-or-ry.” The closest thing to a genuine smile finally rose to my face at Ma’s over-the-top mothering and her insistence on calling each one of her children “young man,” no matter how old we were.
“Where’s Ya-Ya?” I asked, noting for the first time that my grandmother wasn’t with her. She’d been with Ma for every visit.
“Irémise.” Ma stopped fussing and sat in the chair by my bedside. “She’s doing some baking with Lyric and Bodhi. Trying to get them out of the house for a bit.”
We shared a knowing look. My youngest brother, Lyric, the family jokester and resident troublemaker, seemed to be struggling the most with my shooting and everything that had happened. I had jumped into the line of fire to save my big brother from a bullet, and Lyric had savedeveryone else by stopping the gunman. But the act of violence that his heroism had taken seemed to have changed him, and we weren’t sure how to help.
Lyric seemed to have lost his mischievous edge since the incident. He’d become withdrawn and serious, which was so unlike him.
“He’ll b-b-ee okay. Lyric’s st-st-st-rong.” This was ridiculous, so I reached for my phone on the side table and typed what I was trying to say.
He’ll be a troublemaker again soon enough.
I passed her the phone to read, and my attempt at humor worked as a soft smile crossed her lips. “You’re probably right, but it’s so off-putting to see him this way.”
“Only b-een a c-couple of… months-s-s?” I paused for confirmation while raising two fingers to go with what I was trying to say. I was already exhausted from the few words I’d been able to force out. At Ma’s nod, I tried to continue. “So muuu-tccch.” A frustrated breath gushed out of me, and Ma laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. She tapped the phone I was supposed to use when words became too hard.
So much has happened. I can’t imagine this has been easy for any of you. Let’s give him a little more time, and then we could approach him about seeing a therapist. I could ask Levi here. He’s really helped me.
