Page 33 of Life Or Death

JESS

Once the doctors declared my grafts were stable enough, a team of physical therapists visited me. They went over an extensive plan they had put in place that would get my legs working again and span the course of six weeks. It began with the simple task of sitting up, which immediately disappointed me. I couldn’t comprehend why that was the starting point—it seemed very slow-paced, and I was eager to get back on my feet. The sooner I could walk, the quicker I’d be released from this prison, and outpatient therapy could begin.

Life would never be the same, but at least I wouldn’t be trapped amongst four walls with only doctors and nurses to keep me company.

At least that was my thought process before the therapy began. It took one doctor, a nurse, and two orderlies to get me into a sitting position, and as soon as I lifted my head, my blood pressure tanked. I nearly passed out, causing them to want to end the therapy session. I refused, insisting that I could continue. I mean, if I couldn’t fucking sit up, what the fuck was the point of any of this? I really was better off dead.

They relented, giving me a dose of medication to stabilize my blood pressure, and an hour later the session continued. When I sat up, I didn’t feel as weak, but the moment my legs dropped off the side of the bed, I screamed in agony. The tightness in my legs was unbearable. Still, I pushed through, lasting in an upright position with my legs dangling off the bed for a total of three minutes.

It was hopeless and, honestly, very discouraging.

The next few physical therapy sessions were more of the same, and by the end of the week, I was able to sit in a chair for ten minutes. I was also able to look at my legs and not feel the urge to throw up. They were still ugly to look at, and they hurt like hell, but they were healing. The grafts were holding, and according to the surgeons, that was good.

They cleared me to stand, which finally permitted me to put weight on my legs. Again, it took an entourage of people for me to do something so simple. The pain that came with standing was unlike anything else I had experienced since the fire. It spread from my calves to my hips, and it felt like every nerve in my body was being fried.

I learned then, that nerve damage would be something I struggled with for the rest of my life. That realization was daunting. I was pushing myself every day in therapy, hoping to get back on my feet so I could eventually go back to work, but it was becoming clear that my days of bartending were basically over. There would be no way for me to stand for hours upon hours.

Sure, it was something I considered when I had initially came out of the coma and learned of my injuries, but there was a small part of me that hoped for a different outcome. That I would be the exception.

After all, I escaped a horrible childhood.

Survived a fire that should’ve killed me.

I would defeat the odds and go back to bartending.

But I was lying to myself. I wasn’t some fucking miracle burn victim. No doctor would be sharing my case in textbooks.

I fell into a state of depression after that, and I refused therapy for an entire week. The nightmares got worse.

They came every night, relentless and vivid. I’d wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering so hard I was certain it would burst through my chest. That’s when Sandy would appear— the kind nurse who has somehow become my most loyal friend these days. She’d rush into my room, her soft voice cutting through my terror as she took my trembling hand in hers and began to count with me. The numbers became a lifeline that pulled me from the edge of panic.

One morning, I woke with fragments of a dream clinging to me—a deep voice counting, warm fingers wrapped around mine, the scent of leather and something distinctly masculine. I dismissed it as another nightmare, but when Sandy came in with my morning medication, something made me ask.

“Did someone visit me last night? Besides the usual staff?”

I knew it was a crap shoot the moment the question left my lips. No one visited me anymore. Tori was too busy with work, and I still hadn’t heard a word from Amelia, and neither of them smelled like leather. That left Lucifer, and there was probably a better shot of Jesus Christ visiting me than the man who married me.

Sandy’s cheeks flushed slightly as she checked my IV. “Your husband was here. He stayed until sunrise.”

“My husband?”

She nodded, and all I could do was stare at her in disbelief.

Her revelation should’ve infuriated me. He had no right to sneak into my room in the middle of the night and witness me in such a vulnerable state.

But there was no anger.

All I felt was relief, and that confused me.

Deep down, I knew I had been drowning in this room. Tori’s visits had become fewer and farther between. Sure, she texted me every day, and called whenever she got a moment, but between picking up extra shifts at The Hideaway and taking care of Poppy, she barely had time to sleep, let alone make an hour-long drive to see me.

The only human interaction I was getting was with the hospital staff. Sandy, Marlene, the physical therapists, and the orderlies who helped me to the bathroom.

I was lonely, and I liked the idea of having someone comfort me.

Even if the man doing the comforting was Lucifer.

So I let the conversation with Sandy die, and that night when I woke from the nightmare, Lucifer was right beside me, and I knew for certain he was real.