Page 52 of Atlas
Jolene
I woke up in a hospital bed with Diane sitting at my side.
“How are you feeling?” She was holding my hand.
Images from yesterday came flooding back to me like a muddy tsunami making it hard to breathe.
Atlas waking me up because of the fire alarm. The stressful evacuation and fear that we wouldn’t make it out of the tall building and possibly burn alive. Then in the chaos of the fleeing residents, Niklavs had been there, holding a gun to my side and ordering me to move, or he would shoot the children in front of me. At first, I’d been paralyzed with fear and focused on saving the children, but then when he pushed me into a car and drove, my survival instinct kicked in, and I’d pleaded with him to let me go. I remembered Niklavs rambling about my ruining his life by taking away his son. Not even my valid argument that hurting me would never get his son back, had helped. All it did was make him shout at me to shut up and tell me how he was going to put a bullet in my brain.
“I thought I was going to die,” I told Diane, who squeezed my hand and got up from her chair to soothe me.
“It’s okay; you’re safe now. I called for a nurse.”
“He said, he would drop me in a back-alley container like the piece of trash I was,” I cried as my mind’s eye showed me more memories of paramedics and doctors.
“You’re hyperventilating. Just breathe, sweetie, come on, take a deep breath for me.” Diane kept squeezing my hand while using her other hand to brush my hair back.
“He was going to kill me.”
“I know, sweetie, I know. But the police have him now. He can’t hurt you any longer.” Diane’s brown eyes were full of compassion, and with her guidance, I focused on my breathing until I was calmer.
“Where’s Atlas?” I asked, still with tears running down my cheeks.
“He’s here, in the hospital. He’ll survive. You both will.”
I dried my eyes with the blanket. “What do you mean? Is Atlas hurt too?”
“Yes, Niklavs messed him up when they fought. I’ve seen him, and he’s got a big black eye and a cracked lip.” Diane shook her head. “I don’t know what he was thinking, attacking a professional boxer like that, but I’m still glad he did it.”
“I don’t remember seeing Atlas fighting.”
“That’s because Niklavs knocked you out first.”
The door opened, and a nurse came walking in, stopping by my bedside and introducing herself before asking, “How are you feeling?”
“Confused. I’m trying to piece everything together.”
She tilted her head in an expression of sympathy. “I understand. Does your head hurt?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” Her eyes ran over the machines next to the bed. “Your vitals look fine.”
“How long have I been here?”
“About twelve hours. You’ve been awake a few times, do you remember?”
I thought about it. “Vaguely; there was a man who called me sugar, or maybe I dreamed that.”
“That’s Thomas. He’s one of our nightshift nurses. He calls all patients sugar, even men older than him, but I think they like it. You have a concussion, and we’ve been keeping you under observation. That’s why Thomas woke you up every few hours to check if your symptoms worsened.”
“Yes, I remember now. He wore a Broncos pin. I liked him.”
“Everyone likes Thomas. He’s a sweetheart.”
“How long do you think Jolene needs to stay?” Diane asked. She was on the opposite bedside from the nurse.
“I expect the doctor will release you today. Everything looks fine to me, but you’re going to need to take it easy over the next weeks. The doctor will come by and talk to you about it.”
