Page 113 of The Diávolos: Part Two
it's your responsibility.”
—Terry Pratchett
Islowly regain consciousness and my eyes flutter open. I try to adjust to my surroundings, but the harsh light blinds me, bouncing off the sterile white walls.
The confusion lingers, and a dull ache pulses through my head. The room comes into focus, and I become aware of the sounds around me, piecing together the aftermath of what happened. There’s a calm stillness, disturbed only by the hushed hum of equipment. It looks like I’m in a hospital room.
There is no one here, but I can hear whispers of conversations and the gentle rustle of paper coming from the corridor.
An older white man walks into the room and recognition flickers within me. It’s the same doctor that treated Evander when he got shot last year.
“Where am I?” A disorienting fog still lingers in my mind.
He stands at the edge of the bed with an air of professional confidence, clad in a pristine white coat and a stethoscope draped casually around his neck.
“Hello, Mrs. Vasilakis. I’m doctor Joseph. You’re in my medical room,” he says, his eyes sharp and attentive, conveying a mix of empathy and determination.
A puzzle of memories begins to assemble in my mind.
Like scattered fragments converging, my haze lifts as the details fall into place.
I got married, and the church was attacked.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Vasilakis?” Dr. Joseph asks, pulling me from the daze that had enveloped my thoughts.
“Euh, yes. Sorry. I think I just remembered what happened.”
“That was my next question. You hit your head pretty hard. Based on your symptoms and my assessment, you appear to have a concussion,” the doctor explains.
In an abrupt moment of clarity, I remember the deafening roar of the explosions through the church, the shockwaves shattering the tranquility of the sacred place.
I can still somehow smell the smoke which had obscured the stained glass and flickering candles.
White flower petals had twirled around me as debris danced through the air, leaving behind a scene of chaos and devastation.
A pang tightens in my chest as I recall my friends being attacked at my wedding.
Aria.A surge of panic claws its way up from the pit of my stomach, my breaths turning shallow.
“Where is Aria?” I ask, frantic, remembering she took the bullet that was aimed at me. Fury and concern collide within me. I’m so angry at her for throwing herself in front of me so recklessly, yet a knot of worry fastens in my chest.
“Is she alive?” If something were to happen to her, I would never forgive myself for putting her in danger at my wedding.
Dr. Joseph’s gaze softens, sympathy reflecting in his eyes. “She’s alive, but I had to induce her into a coma to control the swelling in her brain.”
A tightening sensation grips my heart.She’s alive,I repeat to myself.
“Is she going to be okay?”
He nods. “It will take some time, but she will make a full recovery.”
A momentary wave of relief washes over me. “What about the others? Evander?” I take a deep breath, mentally bracing myself for his answer.
“Everyone is fine, Angelica. I need you to worry about yourself.”
“I want my husband.” My voice cracks.
“He’ll be back soon. He hasn’t left your side for more than half an hour at a time,” Dr. Joseph replies with the hint of a smile.
