The air on his face was nothing new. The physician had changed the bandages regularly, and many times, Anthony had been half unconscious. But it was the first time the bandages wouldn’t be applied again.
“Your left eye might hurt for a while,” the physician said.
Anthony doubted he would notice any difference. Pain had been his faithful companion for weeks on end.
He blinked. The physician had drawn the curtains shut and lit only a few candles to give Anthony’s left eye the time to adjust. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything from his left eye aside from a blurred black halo. The bad left sight affected even his right side. Slowly, he made out the shape of his bed, armoire, and the concerned face of the physician.
“How do you feel, Your Grace?”
Odd. Sore. Angry. And as if his face were bloated by the stings of a thousand wasps.
“I can see.”
“Excellent. I’ll pull the curtains a little.”
The spring sunlight cut through the darkness, catching his bad eye. He lowered his gaze as a headache started to pound. The physician opened the curtains another inch until they were fully open.
“Is it bearable?”
“Yes.” He stood up and walked towards the wall mirror, but the doctor stopped him.
“Your Grace,” he warned.
Anthony cleared his throat. “I want to look at myself in a mirror.”
The physician collected the bandages, focusing on his leather bag. “I have to discourage you from doing that, sir. Let a few days pass. The flesh will be less swollen and red, and you’ll have a clearer idea of the…the…”
“Damage? Bad news doesn’t improve by ignoring it.”
“Of course, sir.” The physician kept arranging his bottles and tools.
Anthony couldn’t deny the rising anxiety in his chest as he approached the mirror. There was a reason why he’d asked Patrick and Grandmama to leave him alone with the doctor that day. He wanted to be the first to see his face after the physician.
Once he stood in front of the mirror, he raised his gaze. He suppressed a gasp. He should have asked to be alone. Although there was no escaping the horror in front of him.
His right side was normal, a bit pale, if anything. His left eye was whole, which was good, he guessed. But the flesh around it was bumped and torn, forming a sort of grotesque, blossoming flower across his cheek.
The point where the bullet had shredded his face was the centre of the flower with the petals stretching in every direction towards his nose, chin, and temple. The bullet hadn’t gone through his face, but the infection had done most of the damage, starting the tissue inflammation and causing further scarring.
“It’ll get better, Your Grace,” the physician said. “The swelling will settle, and…well, the scars will stay, of course, but they won’t be so evident once the flesh returns to normal.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Besides, he didn’t believe a word the physician had said.
The doctor put a hand on the doorknob. “Would you like to see your brother and grandmother?”
Another nod.
The physician slid out of the room quietly. The moment he shut the door, Anthony released a long breath.
Bloody hell. He looked like a monster who had been mauled by another monster. He tentatively touched the mangled flesh. It wasn’t as sore as he expected, but it felt rough and uneven to the touch and odd as if it didn’t belong to him.
The door inched inwards, and Grandmama and Patrick entered.
“How are you, darling?” Grandmama fell silent when he turned around. Tears welled up in her eyes as she clamped a trembling hand over her mouth. “Heavens,” she said among sobs.
Patrick stood frozen, his expression horrified. “Hell.”
“It is what it is,” Anthony said. “There’s little I can do.”
