A gunshot rings out and I stop my labored breathing. Sorren lays sprawled on the ground a few feet from a tangled David and Tristan. Something hard hits me in the leg, and I pick it up. Another shot fills the air, making my ears ring, and the struggling boys on the ground continue fighting. I watch through blurry eyes as the sound of sirens breaks the loud silence. Red and blue lights cut through the mist that has formed over the land, and I lean against the truck, tucking my legs to my chest, as police officers rush towards us.
I put my face in my hands, shaking uncontrollably. The feel of cool metal presses against my cheek, and a dozen officers stand a few feet away from me, blocking Tristan and the scene that was just unfolding.
“Sweetheart, hand us the gun. You’re safe now,” a kind looking woman says, but with the gun she has pointed at me, I immediately see her as a threat.
The thing that hit my leg during the fight was the gun David had. Tristan must have gotten a hold of it and sent it flying wherever he could. I fired the second shot, the one that caused the ringing in my ears. I stare at the death trap in my hands before dropping it to the ground.
A man I don’t recognize rushes over to me, momentarily letting me see what’s unfolding beyond the circle of people I’m enclosed in. Tristan is sitting up, surrounded by his own group of officers. Sorren is being lifted onto a stretcher and from what I see, she isn’t moving. A rock drops in my stomach, and I turn to the side and throw up on the shoes of the nearest officer. I look up at him to apologize, but more vomit makes an appearance.
The embarrassment from puking fades as I’m bombarded with pain from every orifice of my body. My torso feels like it’s on fire, and trying to breathe sends stabbing pain to my lungs. I look at the ground, closing my mouth in an attempt to catch my breath. Every time I breathe in, I feel an agonizing pain in my ribs. The unknown man who was approaching me turns my face, but not before I catch sight of the blood on the ground. I didn’t vomit; I was spewing blood.
“Katherine, we’re going to take you to the hospital. This is oxygen, try to take slow breaths,” the man says, trying to sound calm but his tone is laced with panic. He’s young and probably inexperienced. Great… that’s comforting.
The man loads me onto a gurney and plops me into the back of an ambulance, but not before Tristan hops in the back of the vehicle.
“Son, you can’t be in here!” a man says, moving to push him out.
Tristan says nothing, merely sits beside me and takes my hand. He’s in rough shape: a swollen eye that will probably be very black very soon, a deep gash on his forehead that looks like it needs stitches, and a split lip that coated his normally white teeth in a layer of crimson blood. The look in his eyes is all the reply the medic needs, because he shuts the door and we speed away.
Tears fall down Tristan’s face and a sob escapes him; it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. I feel a heaviness settle over me, so I know I don’t have long until I black out. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, or how serious my injuries are, so I don’t want to waste another second by his side.
I raise my right hand, which is covered in blood and dirt, and sign Tristan the only word I know in sign language.
I love you.
Chapter 16
Tristan
I cry the whole way to the hospital. The medic didn’t say a word as she passed out, just kept doing whatever he was doing to her. She told me she loves me. She didn’t speak the words, but my sister and I used to sign them to each other every day as her school bus pulled away from our house. The gesture made more tears fall, and I was too heartbroken to care or be embarrassed.
The nurses had to pry my hand from Katie’s as we entered the hospital, and I was left standing in the hallway, alone, with my angel’s blood on my hands.
Time passes. Who knows how much, but it passes. And I sit in the ER waiting room as doctors approach me. Questions. Stiches. Medication. It all blurs together until I take a deep breath…
And pray.
“Tristan?” I feel an arm pulling me upright and jump, eyes popping wide.
“Rachel,” I say, accepting her hug with gratitude. She’s been there for me through it all, so it only makes sense for her to be here with me now. Especially because it’s her niece we’re crying over this time.
“Thank you, Tristan. For being so brave,” she says as I bury my face in her neck.
Brave? I’m blubbering like a child while she’s consoling me. The only woman who has shown me maternal love in the past few years is the only person I speak to while we wait in the hospital. Doctors keep asking me to go get more thoroughly checked out, but I refuse.
“How’s Sorren?” I ask as the latest round of nurses shuffles out of our private waiting room.
Rachel sighs, rubbing her temples with her fingers. It takes her a moment to answer, and it only takes a few seconds for me to get even more nervous.
“Sorren is in a coma, Tristan. She was shot in the head. They can’t know the extent of the damage, and she’s on life support,” Rachel says.
My breath falls out of me in a huff. Emotional overload has officially set in and I slump against the bench and stop thinking.
Chapter 17
Katherine
The first thing I hear is someone talking. An unfamiliar female voice, which is rather nasally and unpleasant keeps repeating my name. My eyes open slowly and my lids feel like they weigh fifty pounds, but at least the room is semi-dark. They must’ve turned off the lights to help me adjust. It takes only a moment to remember my setting and when I do, a monitor registers the pickup of my heartbeat.
“Relax, Katherine. Do you know where you are? Don’t try to speak, just nod if you do,” she says with authentic concern in her eyes.
I nod and tears drip from my eyes. I hate crying, but it’s all I seem to be doing of late.
“Good. Do you need any more pain medication? It will make you sleepy.”
I shake my head, not wanting to sleep anymore. My whole body feels numb and I feel very vulnerable and being asleep would bring no comfort.
“Is it okay if we take out the tube that’s down your throat?” she asks, completely serious.
I roll my eyes. No, leave the tube in… I think, loaded with sarcasm. The moment of irritation is erased as the tube is removed and I feel like I’m suffocating. I gasp and my lungs learn to work again.
“Great job, kiddo! I’ll send the doctor in,” the nurse says, patting my head like I’m a five year old. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again.
“Sorren. My friend. Is she okay?” I rasp, the words barely audible.
“I’ll send the doctor in,” the nurse repeats, worrying me.
A few seconds later, the same doctor I saw a few nights ago walks in. Doctor Colson.
“Katherine. Hello my dear. I’m sorry to see you again under these circumstances, but from what I hear, you’re feeling well. You’re not lying, I hope?” he says in his soothing deep voice.
Something about this man brings me comfort. I can’t put my finger on it, but maybe he’s just a genuinely nice person. I’ve always been a good judge of character. Minus the year…
“I’m not feeling well, but I’m not in as much pain as I thought I would be,” I say, which is stupid. I wasn’t thinking about the amount of pain I would be in. I’ve been thinking of nothing but Tristan and Sorren since I woke up a few minutes ago.
“How are my friends?” I ask, interrupting whatever he was beginning to say.
“Let’s talk about you for a few minutes, Katherine,” he insists, pulling over a little chair on wheels.
“Let’s not. How are my friends?” I repeat with much more force.
He sighs, pulling off his overly large glasses. “Katherine, Sorena is in a coma. A bullet lodged in her brain and she’s unable to function on her own. There isn’t much we can do but pray.”
The heart monitor slows down as a lead weight crashes onto my shoulders. I blink, but I am too stunned to show any emotion. My
mind reels back to the visions we shared and the one I kept from her… of her death. Maybe they were warnings? But a coma isn’t death. Miracles do exist, I am one of them. If it’s meant to be, then it will be. It’s the Lord’s decision.
But that doesn’t make it easy on the rest of us. A sudden realization falls on me and I scream before bursting into tears. It’s still difficult to breathe, and I start gasping and panicking.
I was holding a gun. I fired a shot. What if it was my bullet that hit her? What if it was the bullet I released for no reason? I don’t even remember why I shot! I just shot to feel like I was helping somehow. The doctor must have anticipated my meltdown because he puts a hand on my shoulder and speaks in a very firm voice.
“Katherine, Tristan saw the whole thing. David’s bullet was what hit Sorren; not yours. You hit David in the shoulder, although no one knows how. You got extremely lucky, Miss. Prince. You have someone watching out for you up there,” he concludes.
A few minutes pass and I try to even my breathing, like Doctor Colson instructs. He explains what happened to me, and I’m shocked to find that this whole ordeal took place nearly four days ago.
“You stumbled and landed, very hard and very fast, on a large, pointed rock. Upon impact, three of your ribs snapped and punctured your right lung. This is called pneumothorax, which is a collapsed lung. This condition is what caused you to cough up blood. We mended your lung but your ribs will have to heal on their own. We’ve kept you sedated so that you wouldn’t be in pain,” he says, sounding very professional.
I sniffle, wiping my nose with a tissue he hands me. “Is Tristan alright?” My heart thumps, waiting for an answer.
“Yes, other than a sprained wrist and a few cuts and bruises, he’s miraculously unharmed. He hasn’t left your side, or the waiting room, since your arrival. He’s showering in the room next door at the moment. Your aunt is at the airport, picking up your mother.”
A faint sigh of relief escapes me, followed quickly by guilt. How can I feel relieved when Sorren is in a coma? She took her life in her hands to protect us, the two people who fought with her the night before. The amount of courage it took, of love and selflessness, is astounding.
“Katie?” a voice says from the doorway.
My heart sings. The angel I’ve known for such a short time, but love so deeply, was almost taken from me. We were almost separated, and I had never told him how much he means to me. Never told him how thankful I am for his very soul; for his heart. He is all I’ve ever needed, desired, and dreamt of.
And he was almost gone as quickly as he came.
“Tristan,” I say, voice cracking, but I refuse to cry. I also refuse to tell him my feelings in a hospital room, so close to death and heartbreak. So close to Sorren.
He closes the gap between us, gently wrapping his arms around me, being careful of my ribs. His one hand is wrapped in an Ace bandage, his forehead covered in gauze and eye black and blue. He looks like he took a jog through hell, but he is still beautiful. It’s vain and horrible to notice such things under the circumstances, but I simply cannot help it.
His lips move but no words come out, and I know that he is praying. I close my eyes, feeling the blessings washing over me. The goodness flows out of every silent word he prays.
“Thank you, God,” he says aloud, putting both hands on the sides of my head, kissing my forehead and letting his lips linger for a very long time.
Doctor Colson apparently stepped out of the room at some point, because when my eyes start to close and Tristan shuts off the lights completely, we are alone in my hospital room.
“You can go home tomorrow. We can get through this,” Tristan whispers, dragging an uncomfortable looking chair over to my bedside.
“What happened to David?” I ask, almost not wanting to hear the answer.
“He’s under arrest. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
A few moments pass by. “Tristan?” I whisper, unsure if he fell asleep.
“Yes, angel?”
I hesitate. “Don’t sleep in the chair, please. I just… just want to feel you holding me,” I squeak out, choking back tears yet again.
He doesn’t object, just moves the railing down on the left side of my bed and takes off his shoes. I scoot over until my hip bumps the right railing, but there is a surprising amount of room for a hospital bed. Tristan climbs in next to me, sharing my pillow and gently wrapping an arm around my stomach, using his other arm as extra support under his head. I turn on my side, which isn’t an easy task due to the shooting pain in my chest. Tristan must sense this because he shifts, leaning over my body and pressing the red button on the bed.
“Yes, Katherine?”
“She needs some more pain medicine, please,” Tristan says, speaking for me.
Not a minute later the nurse comes in, using the light from the open door to inject medication into my IV and, almost immediately, drowsiness settles over me. The nurse doesn’t say anything about our intimate position; just bids us a goodnight and shuts the door behind her.
Our legs intertwine, our breaths mix, and I fall asleep with his lips on mine.
I’m woken the next morning by sunlight hitting me directly in the face. Tristan is still curled up next to me, looking very uncomfortable. In two chairs next to my bed, not speaking to one another, are my Aunt Rachel and my mother. I blink a few times, feeling stiffness in my neck and back. The pain in my chest is still present every time I inhale, but I can’t not breathe so I better get used to it because, according to Doctor Colson, ribs take at least six weeks to heal.
“Katherine?” my mother says, keeping her voice low.
I look over at her and our eyes connect, a secret and silent message being sent between us. Something in her eyes says more than any sentence we’ve ever shared before. The inner conflict raging within her green eyes, so like my own, speaks volumes: she’s sorry, she loves me, and she wishes she could take everything back. Every time she stood by as my father broke a piece of my heart with his words or his fists. Every time she should’ve comforted me when instead she ignored the truth.
If I wasn’t God’s child, if I rejected his love and is word, then I would not have the strength to do what I am about to do. I would simply walk away and let the bitterness consume me. But instead, I take God’s love and use it to the fullest.
“Hi Mom,” I say, but my voice crackles from disuse.
She must see the forgiveness in my eyes, because she starts to cry. I’ve never actually seen my mother cry in person, only in the vision I had of my suicide. It’s disarming to see her vulnerable, but it’s about time.
“We’ll go get the doctor, Katherine. It’s time you get out of here, huh?” Aunt Rachel says as she stands and plants a kiss on my forehead. I smile up at her through the drowsiness and she exits the room with my mother on her heels.
I put my hand on Tristan’s face, inches from my own. Almost immediately he stirs, groaning as the light from the window hurts his tired eyes. He moves his arm and his shoulder pops, showing me how poorly he must have slept last night.
“Good morning,” I say as he rubs his face with his hands. There’s a bit of stubble on his chin, which adds to the rugged look of his face. How does someone so beautiful, even in the early morning with bruises all over his face and bags under his eyes, belong to me? I don’t know, but I’m sure glad he does.
The doctor comes in with nurses and in the next hour, I’m being rolled to the car in a wheelchair. It’s cramped in the backseat with Tristan next to me and my mother in the front, but we manage to get home in one piece.
The sun makes its way across the sky, signifying the passage of time. Tristan and I sit on the porch, staring at the mountains, not speaking. I don’t think there are words right now, so we comfort each other in silence.
My brother is responsible for the deaths of multiple people, and for the nearly fatal injury of the girl I share some sort of connection with. The girl who risked her life to save mine and my angel
’s. My brother, the boy I took baths with, lived with, slept a room away from, cowered with as our father beat our mother in front of our eyes, is capable of murder.
I am ashamed to be of his homicidal blood. I am angry that he took the lives of so many people for no reason. I am confused as to what made him snap and decide that the lives of others were worthless. Trying to get inside the mind of a killer is useless, so I must stop attempting to understand. Because the truth is, we’ll never know. The sibling I thought I loved and missed and understood is no more. Perhaps he never was; he was merely a figment of my wishful thinking. Perhaps he was always lethal and he finally decided that he was tired of hiding his need for blood.
Of course he would go after our father. I should be mourning his death, like any good daughter would do. But he was not a good father, so I don’t owe him a single tear. As God’s child, I’m trying to find it in my heart to forgive his soul for the abuse he inflicted on his family for so many years. The abuse that led to my self-loathing and, ultimately, attempted suicide.
No, I do not mourn the death of the man who drove me to such pain. Who broke my heart into a hundred tiny pieces, some lost forever in dark pits, never to be found again. I mourn for a life lost at the hands of a psychopath, but I would be lying if I said he didn’t deserve it. No one deserves to die, but this is his own form of punishment. I had intensified emotions, but he gets an eternity to reflect on his atrocities.
I wonder what my mother is feeling. What went through her mind as she watched her son lose whatever was left of his sanity? What does she think of the miraculous recovery her suicidal delinquent daughter made? Does she blame herself for David’s acts? Wonder how I was healed and her son wasn’t?
The love of God saved my soul and brought me out of the darkness that almost swallowed me. His love, his pure unbiased love filled my heart with a brightness that no amount of therapy or medication or alcohol could ever compete with. The peace inside of me is only there because he believed in me enough to give me life after I took it away.
Pieces of a Mending Heart Page 18