inevitable

{Four}

Brax

Pain. Fierce, agonizing pain fills my every breath. It radiates down my arms and legs, bursting like a white-hot bolt of electricity inside my skull. The pain is how I know I'm alive.

I register light filtering through my eyelids and beeping sounds coming from my right. I slowly peel my eyes open and try to suck in another breath. The pain from my rib cage nearly blinds me.

Broken ribs.

I glance down at my body. I'm lying in a bed, covered by a white blanket, both arms resting on top. My right arm is wrapped in blue plaster that reaches all the way to my elbow.

Broken arm.

I try to move my legs. An agonizing throb sears through my hip. I grit my teeth and breathe through a wave of pain as my toes wiggle. I can feel the weight of more plaster on my right leg.

Broken leg.

I reach up to  my forehead with my good arm and feel the layers of gauze wrapped around it.

Head injury.

As intense as it is, this pain is not the sharp torture I felt right after slamming my motorcycle down on the asphalt of the freeway. I realize looking down at the IV in my arm, it's being dulled by medication.

The fact I'm still alive means I'm still dealing with everything that was there before. All the anger. All the loss. All the bullshit. I figure some sort of disappointment should follow that thought, but I don't feel it yet.

There's also hope.

I don't know where that thought comes from because it sure the hell doesn't sound like me. Not the me who has been trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol and roaring down the freeway late at night, tempting fate with the speed of his bike.

I try to sit up, but that white-hot pain soars through my limbs and pounds through my head--pain that should be expected after what I put my body through. Looking up at a white ceiling or lying in a hospital room is no surprise either. This sterile room that stinks of cleaning chemicals, and despair.

Ever since my old man died, Mom won't set foot in a hospital. The only man she ever loved left her side too soon. And now her only son, my sorry ass, almost went out the same way.

How long am I going to rot in here? With these injuries, probably a while.

My focus moves to my surroundings, evidence of the mess I made of my body. It's a consequence of the nightmare that's been playing on repeat in my life. I shift my gaze from the ceiling to the wall to see a curtain and the monitor I'm hooked up to. Every move of my neck is agony, but I bite back the groan.

I slowly turn my head, expecting to see a window, but--full shock--there's a girl sitting in a lounge chair with a stack of papers on her lap. Her head leans back against the headrest and her mouth droops open to one side, a little pool of drool glistening in the corner. The chick's legs are limp, and one hand still grips a highlighter.

My eyes rake over her face again, and then I start to panic. Maybe I do know her, but I just can't remember. I start to run through every person I can think of to place a face or a name for this unknown girl. I realize my thoughts are foggy from the day of the accident when I try to remember where I was just before I took that fateful ride, but I can't. Everything else from before is clear as day, un-fucking-fortunately for me. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. A part of me wishes memory loss were part of this deal.

I decide to test her out.

"Hey," I say. Or, I sort of say, but my throat is dry. The sound comes out in a cough. I try again, pushing my voice a little harder. "Hey, hello?"