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Jul. 24th, 2006 08:41 pm"Shit." The towel's still around his shoulders to catch the drips from his hair after the shower, and he knows between that and the sweatpants it will make it really fucking hard to wrap his ribs but he knows if he moves the towel the gauze will get soaked and if he doesn't wrap his ribs, his chances for any fucking rest at all are zero: Vicious did a hell of a job on him. He's not really sure if his ribs are healing slowly or not, but it sure as fuck doesn't feel like they are. Then again, he doesn't have any experience with them being broken the way they are, and all he really knows in the middle of the night is that this injury sucks, it sucks. There's no way to be comfortable: sitting, lying down, standing, hanging upside down. Actually, that last one's about the only thing he hasn't tried.
All it takes is one glance in the mirror -- once the steam's kind of worn off -- to remind himself that there's no rushing this shit business of healing: if he thought he was a good shade of purple last time his ribs were broken, this is twice as good an experience. Last time the purple pretty much stayed in front but this time it wraps all the way around his midsection, from just right of his belly in the front (where Vicious tried to cut him open) all the way to and beyond his spine in the back. There hasn't been a doctor to tell him exactly how many ribs are broken and in how many places, but he knows the diagnosis wouldn't be good even if there was a doctor at this place he trusts.
Whatever happens happens.
Right now, that mantra kind of sucks. The toothbrush goes back into its holder; he stops for a minute, eyes riveted on Beth's blue cup; his mind starts to wander. Beth, where are you? What are you doing? How's Junior? Still kicking up a storm in there? Did I train him to stay away from your kidneys? Wherever you are, is someone taking care of you? Like you need that; you can take care of yourself. I've always thought that was one of the most amazing things about you: how self-sufficient you are. Shit, Slim. I miss you. I really, really hope you're okay. If I have to break down the goddamn door to get back to you, you know I'll do it.
As soon as I can move around again.
He picks up that cup and just holds it in his hand for a minute like it's some magical connection to her, but he's tried this before and the little blue cup sure as fuck never gives up any information.
After all, it's just a cup; he puts it back where it belongs and opens the medicine cabinet and takes out a couple rolls of gauze. It's a tricky fucking operation and some nights it goes better than others, and he wishes he didn't have to do this because it's better for his lungs if he doesn't. But shit, at least he's not smoking. He's only had one cigarette since he's been back, and that was the first night with Elaine when it really, truly hit him that Beth was gone and he was still in shock from all his injuries.
He takes one more look at himself in the mirror, then brings the gauze and tape with him out of the bathroom, into the bedroom. It won't be any easier in here, but at least there's more room to move around. Tonight, playing doctor on himself is really slow going, though. Nothing's cooperating: not the tape, not the gauze, not his brain, not his body.
"Shit."
All it takes is one glance in the mirror -- once the steam's kind of worn off -- to remind himself that there's no rushing this shit business of healing: if he thought he was a good shade of purple last time his ribs were broken, this is twice as good an experience. Last time the purple pretty much stayed in front but this time it wraps all the way around his midsection, from just right of his belly in the front (where Vicious tried to cut him open) all the way to and beyond his spine in the back. There hasn't been a doctor to tell him exactly how many ribs are broken and in how many places, but he knows the diagnosis wouldn't be good even if there was a doctor at this place he trusts.
Whatever happens happens.
Right now, that mantra kind of sucks. The toothbrush goes back into its holder; he stops for a minute, eyes riveted on Beth's blue cup; his mind starts to wander. Beth, where are you? What are you doing? How's Junior? Still kicking up a storm in there? Did I train him to stay away from your kidneys? Wherever you are, is someone taking care of you? Like you need that; you can take care of yourself. I've always thought that was one of the most amazing things about you: how self-sufficient you are. Shit, Slim. I miss you. I really, really hope you're okay. If I have to break down the goddamn door to get back to you, you know I'll do it.
As soon as I can move around again.
He picks up that cup and just holds it in his hand for a minute like it's some magical connection to her, but he's tried this before and the little blue cup sure as fuck never gives up any information.
After all, it's just a cup; he puts it back where it belongs and opens the medicine cabinet and takes out a couple rolls of gauze. It's a tricky fucking operation and some nights it goes better than others, and he wishes he didn't have to do this because it's better for his lungs if he doesn't. But shit, at least he's not smoking. He's only had one cigarette since he's been back, and that was the first night with Elaine when it really, truly hit him that Beth was gone and he was still in shock from all his injuries.
He takes one more look at himself in the mirror, then brings the gauze and tape with him out of the bathroom, into the bedroom. It won't be any easier in here, but at least there's more room to move around. Tonight, playing doctor on himself is really slow going, though. Nothing's cooperating: not the tape, not the gauze, not his brain, not his body.
"Shit."
