Her and that fucking phone…
"Just… hold on," she says. "Hold on, okay? I'll get you some help."
She starts dialing 9-1-1, but I stop her before she can press the last number, shaking my head as I reach for her phone. "No! No police."
"What?" She looks at me with shock. "Naz, you're hurt! Like really bad hurt! You need a fucking ambulance! You need to go to the hospital!"
"Carter," I mutter. "Call Carter."
"Who's Carter?"
"He's a doctor," I say. "His number is, uh… it's three four seven, uh… eight five three… uh… one…"
"One what?" she asks when I hesitate. "What's next?"
I shake my head. Fuck. Everything's hazy. I'm swaying. "My phone… it's in my phone. Look for Carter."
She drops her phone and digs into my pants pockets, grabbing mine. She calls the number as I stagger past her, ignoring her protests. The wound is bleeding badly, but I don't think it hit anything major.
Had it hit an artery, I would be dead by now.
I can hear Karissa, her voice sounding underwater. She speaks frantically into the phone before she calls out to me. "Naz, wait… he says not to move, to stay where you are!"
Before I can even respond, she's grabbing a hold of me, trying her best to help me as I head into the den. I collapse on the couch right inside, trying to keep my eyes open. I need to get this bleeding stopped.
"Tell him to hurry," I mutter.
"He's on his way," she says, throwing my phone down before the words are completely from her lips. "What can I do? What do you need?"
"Put pressure on the wound," I say. I'm getting too weak to do it, the pain too much for me to inflict any more on myself. Self-preservation is a bitch.
"How?"
"Just… get a towel or something. Use anything."
She looks around for something to use before, in a snap decision, pulling off her shirt. It happens in a blink, one second she's just sitting there, the next she's practically on top of me in nothing but her bra, her white tank top balled up in her fist.
She couldn't just go get a towel?
Shoving my hand out of the way, she presses the fabric to my side hard. I grimace, groaning as the burning rips through my gut.
"Fuck, Karissa," I mutter. "I'm already wounded, and you start taking your clothes off. Are you trying to kill me?"
"Not funny," she says, a slight tremble in her voice, her tone dead serious. She doesn't find it funny at all. Forcing my eyes open, I peer at her, my vision blurry but clear enough to see tears silently streaming down her cheeks.
That sobers me up quickly.
"Hey," I say, my voice gritty as I reach for her, brushing her cheek with the back of my hand, ignoring the fact that I smear a streak blood on her face. "Don't cry. It's going to be okay."
She doesn't meet my eyes, keeping her gaze trained on my side as she presses against it with everything in her, the tears still falling. I'm not sure what to say. I don't know if it's the bloodshed or the realization that I'm hurting her again that makes me feel like throwing up, the nausea so intense it burns my throat, everything fuzzy, my chest feeling like it wants to cave in.
My heart might really give out at this rate.
The dizziness is coming on hard, my vision fading as sweat forms along my brow, running down the side of my face as I try to focus on staying conscious. Every second gets harder, every breath more of a struggle.
"How do you know?" she asks quietly. "How do you know it's going to be okay?"
My eyes drift closed, my eyelids too heavy, the wooziness too strong for me to fight, the current sweeping me under. I struggle with every last bit of energy in me to respond, my words barely a whisper.
"Because you're not getting rid of me that easily."
"Naz! Oh God, Naz!"
I'm caught in that space between sleep and awake where the world is a slow-motion haze, an illusion I can't believe. It's not real. It can't be. It can't be happening. Her voice is a fiery scream of terror, a sound that rattles my bones and stops me from breathing.
"Naz!"
She screams again, my name morphing into an ear-splitting shriek. It's a blink of an eye, a split second where I stare in the thick darkness at a cold, calculated face that used to regard me warmly.
They say when this life takes you it's usually at the hands of a friend.
I never thought it would be him.
The gunshot lights up the room before the blast hits me straight in the chest, like a firecracker going off beneath my ribcage. I can't speak, can't react, as the pain ruptures inside of me, expanding, exploding.
Fuck, I'm dead.
I'm dying.
I fall back on the bed, my vision already blacking out from the blast, blood staining the white sheets surrounding me. It looks black in the darkness, shadowy oblivion threatening to take me away.
She's still screaming.
She's screaming my name.
Over and over again.
Naz.
Naz.
Naz.
The name dies on her lips as another gunshot echoes through the room, her voice swallowed up by a loud gasp. A gasp for air, for another breath, for another chance… a gasp that rocks me to the core, a pain I feel beneath my skin, gripping me harder than the buckshot in my chest, constricting my heart until it explodes.
A blink, and he's gone. There's nothing but darkness around me, the room completely still.
Another blink, and I force myself to move, defying the laws of nature as I struggle to pull her into my arms. She's still gasping, desperate, trying to speak, her lips moving as they sound out my name, but there's no sound to accompany it. I hold her tightly, fighting… and fighting… and fighting, but there isn't enough fight left in the world for her.
One more blink, and she's gone, too.
Through the heavy blackness, the faint scent of antiseptics hits me, making my nose twitch. I shiver, the flimsy blanket covering me stiff and cold, like a sheet of thin ice, as air blows down on me from somewhere up above.
Before I even open my eyes, I know exactly where I am. I've been here before. This isn't the first time I've woken up this way.
Last time I thought I was in Hell.
The hospital.
The air is icy around me, deathly silent, but I can hear chaos in the distance: beeps from machines, the rush of footsteps, whispered chatter. Forcing my eyes open, I'm not surprised that darkness greets me.
It's still nighttime.
If it's even the same day…
My vision is blurry and my head is foggy. Medicine heavily runs through my system, a grogginess that comes only from being drugged, but it does little to ease the pain.
I don't want to move.
It hurts to fucking blink.
Ignoring it, I shift position anyway, clenching my jaw when I try—and fail—to sit up in the bed. My fingertips tingle, my mouth dry, as a sudden swell of nausea rushes through me.
My head feels like it's about to explode.
Collapsing back with a resigned sigh, my hands explore what I can feel of myself. There's a big bandage on my left side, the source of most of the pain. An IV leads from my right arm to a machine, pumping something clear into my veins.
Whatever it is, I want nothing to do with it.
Grimacing, I yank the IV right out of my arm and throw it aside, ignoring the small stream of blood that runs from the tiny wound, dripping onto the floor. I yank out every wire running to me, pulling out needles, disconnecting myself from machines.
My blurry eyes scan the room in the darkness. I'm alone. I'm not surprised, but the nagging in my chest at the moment is about more than just my injuries. No matter how irrational it might be, part of me thought she'd be here, that she'd be at my side whenever I woke up.
But there's no sign of Karissa anywhere.
She found her opening, her chance to run when there's no way for you to chase her. She's free of you now.
It only takes a minute a
fter regaining consciousness before the door to the room opens. My gaze shifts that way, instinctively looking for her, stupidly hoping it'll be her.
Instead it's a man I'm gravely familiar with.
Dr. Michael Carter.
Okay, so he's not that kind of doctor, per se.
He's a doctor of veterinary medicine.
Which means neither of us belong here.
Hospitals mean records, which mean mandatory reports, which means it's only a matter of time before the police come knocking. I go to Carter to stitch me up quickly and quietly, but this wasn't quick, nor is it going to be quiet.
The man at least has enough sense to keep the light in the room off, offering a nervous half-smile as he tentatively approaches.
I don't return the greeting.
There's nothing to smile about here.
My voice is scratchy as I ask, "Why am I here?"
He hesitates before cutting off the machines I just disconnected myself from before the alerts bring anyone else to the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed by my feet. "Didn't have a choice, Vitale. You lost quite a bit of blood."
"I don't care," I say. "You should've robbed the Red Cross before bringing me to this place."
He's quiet, contemplative, as he looks around, looking at everything except for me now. He knows he made a mistake. His gaze settles on the empty chair across the room, the one intended for visitors, but there are none of those for me.
Nobody cares that much, I think.
"I talked to the surgeon… he's a friend of mine, you know. Good man. He said the gunshot to your side was a through-and-through. Messy, but superficial. They stopped the bleeding and repaired the damage."
"So again," I say, "why the hell am I here?"
He shakes his head. "The woman who called? She was worried."
My gaze settles on the empty chair. "Couldn't have been too worried."
He lets out a strained laugh. "She was a mess when I got there. Out of her mind. The poor thing had more blood on her than you did. You were out like a light, but you were breathing fine, pulse weak but holding steady. Still though, she was trying to give you CPR, beating on you and blowing air into your lungs, doing more harm than good. Every time she pushed on your chest, you gushed more blood. Trying to keep you alive, and she damn near killed you doing it."
Despite myself, I smile at that. Sounds like Karissa—inadvertently fucking up my life, not even realizing what she's doing to me.
"So that's why I had you brought to the hospital," he says. "I know it's always a last resort, Vitale, but the condition you were in? The condition she was in? Felt like a last resort kind of situation to me."
"Did they report it?"
He sighs. "You know they had to."
I want to be furious at the man, for the obvious trouble bringing me here will cause, but I don't have it in me. I can't force myself to be pissed when my chest viciously aches and I can only seem to care about Karissa.
Her bitch of a mother shot me and I'm only worried about her. Go figure.
Shifting position, I grimace from the stab of pain as Carter stands up again.
"Just relax, okay?" He stares at the IV I threw to the floor and shakes his head. "I know I don't have any authority over you here... or anywhere... but I hope you trust my judgment. They're going to want to keep you here for 48 hours for observation."
"48 hours."
"Yeah, but I know you, Vitale, so I'm hoping you'll give them at least half of that. Just because it wasn't fatal doesn't mean it wasn't serious, you know."
I do know, but I say nothing, letting out a resigned sigh as I close my eyes, trying to lie still to ward off any more jolts of pain.
I fight sleep the rest of the night, too paranoid to let my guard down in a place like this, where it's too easy to get away with ending someone's life. All it takes is a slip of the wrong drug and everyone chalks it up to an accident. But there are no accidents, not where I'm concerned.
The nurse comes around, checking my vitals and trying to replace my IV, wanting to push morphine into me, but I send her scrambling away, refusing anything. The pain gets worse as whatever's in my system starts to fade, and with the agony comes the rush of bitter anger.
I'd rather end up in the morgue than the fucking hospital again.
By the time the sun rises outside, dawning a new day, I'm intolerable, unbearable, full of barely restrained fury that seeps into every word I speak, shining from my eyes at anyone who dares step foot in my vicinity.
I need the hell out of this bed.
The hell out of this place.
Out of this life, this fucking situation, this goddamn existence.
In a rash decision, I throw the blanket off and sit up, searing pain stabbing my stomach. I'm about to force myself to my feet when the door opens, voices immediately carrying through. I recognize one right away, a voice that makes the hair on my arm stand on end, every inch of me turning cold.
Blue. It's probably the only color that affects me more than red. Red is full of passion, but blue is what happens when the passion turns cold. I feel nothing—nothing—except for pure hatred, the kind that swells through the body and turns blood to ice, freezing everything inside of me when I'm doused with it. I'm a shell of a man filled with unadulterated indignation, and I make no apologies for it.
When coated in blue, I make no apologies for anything.
I look toward the doorway of the hospital room, catching sight of two men in blue uniforms with their shiny gold badges and tiny little pins bearing their names, the NYPD patches sewn on their scrawny arms. Dead center of the duo is a man wearing a drab gray suit, his voice the one chipping away at me like he's an ice pick and I'm a fucking glacier.
Detective Jameson.
The first time I met the man was in a room just like this, waking up with a broken chest and half a life left to piece together. He drilled me that day, drilled me for answers as to what happened, and I was honest.
I was too broken to keep it bottled in.
I told him Johnny Rita murdered my wife.
He told me he'd get justice.
He never did.
The man lied to me.
I can respect a murderer, and a thief, but I have no respect for someone who lies straight to my face. Say what you mean and mean what you say or don't say anything at all.
Life is too short to have the bullshit sugarcoated.
Detective Jameson strolls into the room, smiling a fake wide smile, his younger partner on his heels. I don't have much experience with Detective Andrews, personally, but he doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't force a smile or pretend to be somebody he's not. He's a real prick, and that almost makes me like him.
Almost.
"Mr. Vitale," Detective Jameson says, strolling toward the bed. "Sorry to hear what happened to you."
"I'm sure you are."
"I am. I'm happy to see you're moving around, though. Are you…?" He pauses, theatrically glancing around. "You aren't going somewhere already, are you?"
I don't humor that with a response, straining myself as I settle back into the bed. I can't get up now, not with all of them here. I'll probably fall flat on my face, and I won't give them that satisfaction.
Not to mention I'm wearing nothing but a backless hospital gown, and there's no sign of my clothes anywhere.
"Where would I go?" I ask.
"Good question," Jameson says, taking a seat in the black chair, not waiting for an invitation to hang around, while his partner leans against the wall nearby. The uniformed officers linger out in the hallway, not coming any closer. They're just here for back up.
For what? I don't know.
Not like I'd hurt any of them in the middle of a hospital in broad daylight.
No, I'd slip into their houses after nightfall instead.
"We just want to ask you a few questions in regards to the incident that happened last night," the detective continues, pulling a small notebook out of his jacket pocke
t, along with a pen. He flips it open to the first blank page, not looking at me as he asks, "Can you tell me who shot you?"
My response is immediate. "Yes."
Silence swallows the room for a few seconds before the man meets my eyes, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Are you going to tell me?"
"No."
His brow furrows. "No?"
"You asked if I could, not if I would," I clarify. "I have no intention of telling you anything."
Andrews chimes in, clearing his throat. "If you're afraid of retaliation—"
A sharp bark of laughter rocks my chest. I grimace, tears stinging my eyes, pain running through my body from the jolt like a bolt of electric striking my veins. I look away from the men, clenching my jaw and closing my eyes to push back the sensation.
When I reopen my eyes, my gaze hits the doorway and I stall, frozen at the unexpected sight. Karissa stands there, leaning quietly against the doorframe, wearing a too-big black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pants, looking like she just crawled out of bed. Her hair is piled wildly on top of her head, knotted and twisted, pieces falling down around her weary face. There are lines on her cheeks, a redness streaking the skin that only comes from an assault of recent tears.
She looks broken, but so goddamn beautiful.
I want to put her back together.
I want to break her down even more.
Her eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens at the distress I find lurking in the depths. There's sadness, yes, but even more I see the fear.
Is she still afraid of me?
Why is she even here?
Sighing, I drag my eyes from hers and look at the detectives again. I'm too exhausted and humiliated and in too much pain to keep up this charade. Jameson is speaking again, going on and on about the same nonsense, about keeping the streets safe, knowing good and damn well I'm one of the worst offenders in this godforsaken city. We both know it, but he can't prove it, so his half-hearted lecture falls on deaf ears, little more than the narcissistic wank of an ignorant man who craves power but can't even take down one measly murderous scumbag.
It burns him.
I'd like to set his house on fire and burn him for real some days.
Torture to Her Soul Page 6