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The pain woke me.
Its angry claws dug into my chest and arms, dragging me up from the depths of a deep and dreamless unconsciousness.
A foul taste defiled my dry mouth and I resisted the swift and sudden urge to turn over and vomit onto the cement floor. But, unwilling to move just yet, I forced the rank taste of death down as I swallowed, trying to moisten my aching throat. Knowing there would be nothing to throw up even if I succumbed to the urge. My body felt frail, wisp-like as though hollowed out and stuffed with leaves.
My sight returned in increments, eyelids heavy and crusted so thickly my eyelashes plucked themselves free of my flesh as I worked to open them.
Breathing hurt.
My brain was on fire.
I couldn’t feel my fingers.
But I was alive.
My neck strained as I turned stiffly on the sweat-soaked pillow beneath my head, trying to blink through the haze clouding my eyes. The cold room wavered in and out of focus. I groaned, but that only made my ribs scream in protest of the vibration.
Fuck.
I couldn’t be sure how much longer I lay there in a pool of my own sweat and blood and piss and stink, but long enough that the feeling returned to my fingers. Long enough that I could draw a fuller breath and the dim light no longer seared my eyes. Until I could move enough to reach over my battered body to the IV needle I’d haphazardly jabbed into my vein when the fever came on, bringing with it a delirium so complete that I saw four of my own arm as I fed the needle into my skin. I tugged it out with a grunt, and felt the warmth of fresh blood pool and spill down my forearm.
The IV bag hung shriveled where I’d fastened it to the wall above my cot with a blade stabbed directly into the wooden beam.
I had no doubt it was that bag of hydrative solution that prevented my death.
I’d misjudged the injuries.
The broken ribs were more a nuisance than anything, and gratefully none had punctured a lung. The fractured elbow would heal. The bleeding into the skin and soft tissues around my chest was ugly as shit but it would fade with time and proper circulation. It was the head trauma I’d misjudged. The internal bleeding had seemed slight. Manageable without emergency intervention.
But instead of better, it’d gotten so much worse.
It was a small miracle I was alive. That I still had the ability of rational thought.
Though I doubted the throbbing ache pressing on my skull like a drum would ease any time soon.
Hands shaking, I carefully eased myself upright, shutting my eyes against a wave of vertigo I was sure would take me to the floor. But my grip on the cot’s edge saved me from the fall and I waited until it passed.
My cell phone peeked out from beneath the cot and bent to grab it, coughing when the movement sent a bolt of lancing pain through my side.
The screen flashed to life, blinding me, the battery icon in the top corner red and blinking.
This couldn’t be right.
I’d been on this cot, unconscious for five days. Nearly a fucking week.
Slowly desiccating in this dungeon of my own making.
My upper lip curled into a snarl.
What had I missed in those days.
Where was she?
Was she still alive?
How many times had she allowed them to touch her?
My blood heated with a fury so swift and all consuming it made my vision blur and tint with crimson. Made my weak muscles shudder and ache. The Crows would be punished for touching what was mine. No amount of pain or weakness would stop me from meting it out.
