by Chloe Walsh
Father.
Father.
Father.
"Stop!" I growled angrily, even though I was alone in the room. "Just fucking stop talking."
My mind was playing tricks on me, making me feel anxious and on edge, and I had the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach.
My anxiety was so strong I could taste it.
Painkillers, my ass.
This was something that fucked with my head.
Nobody was listening to me.
I kept telling everyone that something wasn’t right and they responded by telling me that everything was fine and then dosing me up with more of whatever the hell was currently flushing through my veins.
I knew they were wrong, but I couldn’t see straight, never mind make sense of my worry.
The more they didn’t take me seriously, the more anxious I grew until I was drowning in concern over something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
It was a horrendous fucking feeling.
My mind was reeling; only one word playing inside my head like a broken record.
Father.
And only one voice repeating that same word over and over again.
Shannon.
I had no idea why I was reacting the way I was, but my heart was going ninety. I knew this because every time I thought about her, the machine I was hooked up to started beeping and flashing.
I didn’t cope well with anxiety. It just wasn’t in me. Adrenalin, absolutely, but fear? No, I didn’t fucking do well with fear. Especially when the fear in my heart was for another person.
When I did manage to train my eyes on the television, I kept thinking 'what the fuck is Pat doing on the telly? The Late Late Show was a Friday night program, but hey – what the hell did I know? Not a lot apparently since I couldn’t distinguish between what night of the week it was.
Sagging back on the mattress, I blinked away the drowsiness and tried to think clearly.
Furious, I twisted my head from side to side, seeking more.
Something wasn’t right.
In my head.
In my body.
I felt like I was trapped, a prisoner of this bleeding bed, and it sucked balls.
Furious with the world and everyone in it, I tapped my fingers against the mattress and did a recount of the ceiling tiles.
One hundred and thirty-nine.
Christ, I needed out of this room.
I wanted to go home.
To Cork.
Yeah, I was that fucking desperate that I didn’t want to be in Dublin anymore. I was having a come to Jesus moment and wanted nothing more than to be back home in Ballylaggin, surrounded by all that was familiar to me.
To be back home with Shannon.
Jesus, I messed up real bad with her.
I reacted horribly.
I was an eejit.
Anger swelled up inside of me again, joined by the depression and devastation that followed every time I thought about what my future held – which was every minute of the day.
Pain? I was in a hell of a lot of pain, but my body was the least of my worries right now. Because I had lost hold of my bleeding senses. My head was gone, lost, back in Cork with a fucking girl.
Bored and restless, I glanced out the hospital window at the darkened sky and then back to the television screen.
Fuck this.
Reaching for my phone, I shakily scrolled through my contacts, struggling to make out the names through the haze, until I found the number I had dialed at least twelve times in the past god knows how many hours or days, and pressed call.
With a great deal of effort, I managed to hold the phone to my ear and waited, with bated breath, listening to the obnoxious ring ring sound, until I was greeted by his monotone voicemail.
"Joey." Sitting forward, I tried to shift my body into an upright position, only to end pulling on some wires attached to my body that had no business being there. "Call me back." Exhaling a pained grunt when I felt a stinging sensation shoot up my legs, I focused on getting the next sentence out without slurring. "I need to talk to her." I was fairly sure I slurred my words anyway considering my voice sounded foreign to me. "I don’t know what's happening, Joey. Maybe I'm fucked in the head, I'm high as balls, but I'm worried. I've got this bad fucking feeling –"
Beep.
"Well, shite." Feeling thoroughly defeated, I ended the call and dropped my phone down beside me before slumping back on the pillows.
Was I hallucinating this whole thing?
No, I knew I was in the hospital.
I knew she had been here to see me.
But maybe I was concentrating on the word father because I had been so surprised to see my own father here when I opened my eyes.
Mashing my lips together, I ignored the tingling, numbing sensation and tried to think clearly.
I was missing something.
When it came to Shannon Lynch, I felt like I was always three steps behind.
Drowsy, I tried to keep my head clear, but it was impossible with the warm, tingling feeling inside of me demanding I close my eyes and absorb the feeling of nothing.
"…If you want to know what goes on inside that head of hers, then be worth it..."
"Fuck you, Joey the hurler," I slurred, throwing the covers off my body. "I am worth it." Dropping my feet to the floor, I caught ahold of the IV pole and pulled myself into a standing position. Every muscle in my body painfully protested the movement, but I forced it down and staggered towards the door.
"Johnny!" Mam exclaimed when she found me in the hallway a few minutes later. She was holding two plastic cups in her hands and staring at me with a horrified look on her face. "What are you doing out of bed, love?"
"I need to go home," I grunted, dragging my IV along with me, as I bared my ass to the world in the cloth hospital gown held up only by my broad shoulders. "Right now, Ma," I added, as I pushed off the wall I had been temporarily resting against, ignored the searing pain coursing through my body, and stumbled clumsily down the corridor. "I need to go."
"Go?" Mam balked at me. "You've just had surgery." Rushing to intercept me, Mam placed her hands on my chest and glared up at me. "You're not going anywhere."
"I am." I shook my head and tried to step around her. "I’m going back to Cork."
"Why?" Mam demanded, as she once again intercepted my move and blocked my path. "What's the matter?"
"Something's wrong," I bit out, feeling woozy and lightheaded. "Shannon."
"What?" Concern flashed in Mam's eyes. "What's wrong with Shannon?"
"I don’t know," I snapped, feeling agitated and helpless. "But I know something's wrong." Frowning, I tried to chase my thoughts, to make sense of what I was feeling, but only managed to come up with, "I have to help her."
"Baby, it's the meds," she replied, looking at me with this fucked up sympathetic gaze. "You're not feeling yourself."
I shook my head, at a complete loss. "Ma," I croaked out hoarsely, "I'm telling you, there's something wrong."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because –" Exhaling heavily, I sagged against the wall and shrugged helplessly. "I can feel it."
"Johnny, love, you need to lie down and rest."
"You're not listening to me," I growled. "I know, Ma. I fucking know, okay?"
"What do you know?"
I sagged in defeat. "I don’t know what I know, but I know I should know!" Frustrated and confused, I blurted, "But she knows, and I know, and she won't tell me, but I swear they all fucking know, Ma!"
"Okay, love," Mam coaxed, wrapping her arm around me. "I believe you."
"You do?" I croaked out, feeling drowsy but slightly sated. "Thank Jesus, 'cause nobody's listening to me around here."
"Of course I believe you," she replied, patting my chest as she led me back to my room. "And I'm always listening to you, pet."
"You are?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"I hate being lied to, Ma," I added, resting far too much of
my weight on her slim body. "And she's always lying to me." My nose twitched and I mashed my lips together, trying to fight off the numbness in my face as a familiar scent wafted up my nostrils. "I like the smell coming off you, Ma." I sniffed again, inhaling the scent. "Smells like home."
"Jean Paul Gautier," Mam replied, pushing the door of my room inwards. "Same as I always wear."
"It's a good smell," I agreed, nodding to myself, as Mam dragged me back into my room.
"I'm glad you approve," Mam chuckled.
"What am I supposed to do now?" I frowned at my bed, watching through a blurred haze as my mother pulled back the sheets and patted the mattress. "Sleep?"
"Yes, you're supposed to go to sleep, love," Mam encouraged, tone coaxing. "Everything will be a lot clearer in the morning."
I scrunched my nose up. "I'm hungry."
"Go to sleep, Jonathon."
"I don’t like Dublin anymore," I grumbled, flopping back onto my bed. "They're starving me to death in this place." I closed my eyes, body sinking deep into the mattress. "And all the bleeding drugs."
I felt the covers being draped over my body once more and then a soft kiss on my forehead. "Go to sleep, love."
"Father," I mumbled, drifting off. "I hate that word."
3
Keep Breathing
Shannon
"Shan, can you hear me?"
Joey?
"I'm right here."
I can't see you.
I felt a hand slip into mine. "Just stay with me, okay?"
I'm scared.
"Please don't leave me."
I don't want to.
"We're nearly there, Shan."
Nearly where?
"Just keep breathing, okay?"
Don't let me die here, Joey.
"Is she breathing? Aoife – is she breathing, baby?"
Please…
"I don't know, Joe…there's a lot of blood."
Help me!
"Just help her –" sobs. "Make her fucking breathe!"
I don't want to die…
4
Dropping Pennies and Bombshells
Johnny
When I woke up Monday morning, it was to a clear head and a tsunami of pain.
Regardless of how much pain I was in, I knew I wasn’t going to complain about it. Not when there was a high chance they would shoot me up again.
Pain relief of the liquid kind that was flushed through your veins was a bad idea.
No joke, I'd been mostly out on my ass since my surgery, high as a bleeding kite, because every time a damn doctor or nurse checked in on me, they deemed it necessary to click the fucking button attached to the line in my hand and flush more of the crazy into my system.
According to the team of doctors I had met earlier this morning; aside from the holes in my body from the surgery, I had been so distressed and uncooperative on Saturday, pulling at my wires and trying to leave the hospital, that it had been safer to keep me partially sedated so I could rest up and heal.
My parents and Gibsie had been in and out all weekend, visiting my crazy ass, but I'd been completely out of it, ranting and raving like a demented lunatic, screaming about fathers and rugby balls.
Yeah, that was bleeding embarrassing.
I was grateful that I couldn’t remember.
Feeling aware for the first time in over forty-eight hours, I pulled myself into an upright position, ignored the shooting pain in my thighs, and reached for my phone off the nightstand. Thankfully, someone had the good sense to put it on charge for me.
Ignoring the plate of food the nurses had left on my bed tray, I blinked the sleep from my eyes and scrolled through the million missed calls and texts I had received since my life fell apart late Friday evening.
Four missed calls and one voicemail from Coach Dennehy.
Jesus…
I shuddered at the thought of what he had to say to me.
Deciding against being a masochist, I quickly moved on, checking through the others instead.
Three texts from Feely. Five calls from Hughie. A couple of dozen messages in the group text from the lads at The Academy. A million more from the lads from school. My physiotherapist. One from Scott Hogan, one of my buddies at Royce. My P.T. Several more from lads I played with at the club in Ballylaggin. Many more from unknown numbers, or numbers I didn’t have saved in my contacts list. Two from Mr. Twomey, the principal at Tommen. One from Coach Mulcahy. Seven texts and twelve missed calls from Bella.
"Fucking Bella." Frustrated, I ignored the voicemails and read through the countless get-well messages, deleting each one as I went until I was left with a blank screen.
Nothing from Shannon.
Not one measly text message.
Fair enough, she didn’t have a phone right now, but Joey did and he had my number.
Pissed off, I scrolled down my contacts, found the name Joey the hurler, and pressed call. The anger inside of me increased with every ring that went unanswered. When I was connected to his voicemail, I felt like I was two seconds off exploding.
Drugged up or not, I knew I'd called him at least a dozen times over the weekend – I remembered that much – and being ignored didn’t sit well with me.
"Joey." Gripping my phone with more force than necessary, I strived to keep my tone neutral even though I was peppering with anger. "I need to talk to her." I didn’t give a shite how he interpreted this. I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought anymore. I had a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that no amount of sleep or hospital drugs could dissipate. "Listen…" Clenching my eyes shut, I attempted to be diplomatic and failed miserably. "I know there's something fucked up going on." Nice one, Johnny. "That sounds nuts. I know. I know, okay. But I've got this terrible feeling." Jesus, I was a headcase. "Shannon said something to me, or I dreamt she said something to me, but it's stuck in my head and I can't…look, I'm not even sure anymore, but I need to talk to her. I need to clear some shite up, okay? So just answer my fucking calls –"
A beep sounded in my ear, letting me know that I had run out of time.
"Asshole," I grumbled and then dropped my phone on my lap only to flinch in pain at the contact. Gingerly, I removed my phone, placing it back on my nightstand before lifting the covers, pulling back my hospital gown, and taking my first sober, clear-headed look at the damage.
Hmm. I tilted my head to one-side, studying myself. Not bad.
My hips, both thighs, and groin were all swollen, ugly and bruised, with bandages covering the parts of me that had been cut open, but my three favorite body parts were still very much in one piece, so to speak. My dick was there and my balls were keeping it company.
Frowning, I studied myself, feeling oddly violated that someone had shaved my balls without permission, but decided against being pissed about this. I was sporting an impressive semi, probably due to the excitement of still being in one piece, so I was taking this as a win.
Thank you, Jesus.
Covering myself back up, I exhaled a sigh of relief and pulled the tray laden down with food towards me, feeling my appetite return with a vengeance.
You're okay, I continued to mentally chant to myself as I chowed down on a rasher, you'll heal, you'll get back on the pitch, and everything will be okay.
But she won't be, a small voice in the back of my head hissed, and you know why.
Tearing viciously into another rasher, I continued to dwell and mull over every moment I had spent with Shannon Lynch from the day I knocked her out with my ball to the moment I sent her away from this room.
I figured it was a coping mechanism. Avoiding my feelings about my impending therapy and prospect of losing out on the U20's. I couldn’t think about rugby right now. If I did, there was a very good chance I would have a meltdown, therefore I locked my focus on Shannon Lynch, obsessing about every teeny, tiny, insignificant detail until I was sure I would explode.
Something's wrong.
Something's wrong and you know it.
Open your fucking mind and think!
Dropping my fork and knife, I shoved the tray away and reached for my phone again. Redialing Joey's number, I clutched the phone and prayed for an answer. My anxiety was festering inside of me to the point where I couldn’t think beyond anything other than her. When I was greeted with his voicemail again, I lost it.
"Listen, fucker, I know you're getting my messages, so you can either answer your bleeding phone or text me back. I'm not going away until I talk to her. Do you hear me? I'm not going the fuck away –"
"Morning, love," Mam chirped as she walked into my hospital room, interrupting me from the one-way conversation I was having with Joey Lynch's voicemail. "How's your penis today?"
Give me strength…
"Call me back," I muttered before ending the call and gaping at my mother.
"I brought you some flowers," she continued without waiting for an answer, setting a bouquet of I had no idea what the hell they were called on my bed tray. "You've been so upset." Smiling, she padded over to my bed and fussed with my blankets. "I thought these might cheer you up."
"How's my penis?" Gripping the sheets around me, I yanked them up to my chest, not trusting that she wouldn't pull them off and check for herself. "Do you think that's a normal thing to ask your son?"
Mam shrugged. "Would you prefer if I called it a willy, love?"
Jesus Christ.
"Well, I'm not six years old, Ma, so no, I wouldn’t prefer that," I bit out, eyeing her warily as she hovered at the side of my bed. "And it's fine."
Mam worried her lip. "Are you sure –"
"I'm sure!" I snapped, batting her hand away when she, like I had predicted, tried to pull down my blanket. "Christ, Ma, we've talked about this before. You need to start respecting my boundaries!"
Huffing out a breath, Mam sank down on the edge of my bed and patted my cheek. "Will you at least show your father?" She gave me a bleeding look. "I'm so worried."
"There's nothing to worry about," I grumbled. "It's fine. I'm fine. We're both fucking fine, Ma. I'm in a hospital, you know."