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13
CAMBRIA
My head has been pounding for an eternity.
I have done nothing but sleep and dream of twisted, incoherent hellscapes.
The blow to my head cracked a part of my skull that caused a bleed, a subdural hematoma. Fortunately, I can’t remember anything that took place, not even before I was hit. All I know is that I was hit and had surgery.
I’ve spent the last ten days slurry and medicated to the point that I don’t trust my own perception of anything. I barely walk without assistance, and the taste of food has changed. It all feels so foreign to me right now. In a fucked up way, I want to return to my fevered dreamscape.
Abram is picking me up from the hospital today, and I have extremely mixed feelings about seeing him. Of course, my first impulse is to try and jump out of this wheelchair into his arms, kissing and hugging him so much that he suffocates.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t have been hurt like this if he hadn’t been involved with the cartel in the first place. He should have known that his place of business would be attacked if he fucked with them, and that place of business involves real, living people. Nobody there should have been in the middle of this, yet here we are.
When he arrives, I feel my nerves growing tense and agitated, like the twisted steel and aluminum fibers of a metal sponge that’s been used too many times.
“Hey, you have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Abram says, leaning over to help me out of the wheelchair and into the SUV. Of course, he had to take the biggest vehicle he owns even though I can barely lift myself into it.
“Mhm,” I groan, squinting as the sun hits my eyes for the first time since I came here. A flash of pain electrifies me, and I cover my eyes completely.
“Everything okay?” he asks nervously as he climbs into the SUV.
“Yeah, yeah. Just drive. I want to get the hell out of here,” I reply coldly. All I want right now is to lie down in my own bed, surrounded by my own things and my own smells. I swear I’ve developed a Pavlovian hatred for the smell of rubbing alcohol.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he starts the car and drives, carefully avoiding anything that would be jarring to me. I can appreciate that, of course, but the bigger picture here is unavoidable.
I’ve been hurt because of Abram.
I don’t know if I can forgive him for that.
When we arrive at the apartment, he insists on helping me up the curb to the building. While I clearly need the help, I feel so betrayed by him that his touch on my arms makes me recoil inside.
“Here, let me get the door,” he offers, rushing in front of me to unlock my apartment door.
“Abram, I know how to unlock a door. I didn’t forget everything when I had surgery,” I snap, feeling my surgical scars pulsing with pain as my headache worsens.
“I’m just trying to make this as easy for you as possible,” he replies softly.
I hobble straight to my bed when we get inside, hoping that he’ll see me handling myself and leave on his own.
“Do you need anything? Ice chips? That’s a thing people get when they have surgery,” he says jokingly.
“I didn’t get my fucking tonsils out, Abram. I had brain surgery,” I respond darkly, glaring at him with as much intensity as my pounding head will allow.
He slowly approaches the bed, sitting next to me and placing his hand on my leg. “Are you mad or something?” he asks uneasily.
I scoff. “Am I mad? You damn near got me killed, and you weren’t even there to do anything about it,” I reply, trying to control the volume of my voice as much as possible. Every syllable feels like a vice grip.
He pauses before responding, his face wary and confused. “What? You think I ordered a hit on you or something? This was a completely unwarranted attack from the cartel,” he replies.
“It doesn’t matter. Ariella and I almost died because you pissed off the wrong people. How am I ever supposed to feel safe with you again?” I ask, turning and staring straight up at him with quiet fury in my eyes.
“You knew the risks of working here before you even applied, don’t lie. And secondly, I’m not leaving your side. If you want to blame me for this, then fine, blame me. But I’m going to stay right the fuck here to make sure you’re alright. It’s the least I can do,” he says in a much harsher tone than before.
“What if I don’t want you here? What if I just want to be by myself in my own apartment without having to worry about hurting your ego all the time?” I ask, slowly sitting up in bed.
“Well, first of all, this is my apartment that I’m letting you live infor free.You’re off work for six months while your head heals, and I’m going to take care of you. That’s non-negotiable,” he replies. “Any other job would toss you to the streets for something like this.”
