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I was greedy with it, smothered it, nearly snuffed it out in my gluttony.
I don’t say a word as a woman listens to my breathing and my heart. She presses her fingers to my wrist, then shines a light in my eyes.
It’s clear I’m in some type of medical facility, but it doesn’t seem exactly like a hospital.
I clench and release my muscles, starting at the bottom of my body by moving my toes. Everything hurts.
The ant bites I felt earlier wash over me again; the tingle of them, I now realize, are parts of my body that have fallen asleep. I flex my calves, rocking my hips next.
“Was I shot?” I ask the woman.
Her eyes find mine. She doesn’t appear to be mean, but they don’t hold the same kindness as the ones I first saw when I woke up.
“You were in an accident,” she says, offering nothing more.
“Tell me what happened,” I say, an edge to my voice I don’t recognize.
“I’m not your doctor. He’s been called and will be here soon.”
She either doesn’t know the answers to my questions or they’re so bad she won’t tell me the truth herself.
I look over, noticing the bag of milky liquid hanging from an IV pole. The first woman said it was an N-G tube. If I’m being fed that way, how long have I been out?
Lifting the covers, I don’t notice any bandages. My muscles ache, but there isn’t the burning fire I’d associate with a gunshot wound. Both arms and both legs move, just not very well.
I cringe when I notice the tube coming out from under the hospital gown draped over me.
A fucking catheter.
As fucked up as it is, that seems like the worst thing in the world. I know, it’s ego.
“H-how long?” I ask, but the woman doesn’t respond.
She looks up at the door when it opens, and I force my eyes in that direction as well.
The kind woman from earlier enters first, and I lock eyes with her, wanting some form of reassurance. I need to know I’m not crazy, but then she steps aside.
“Angeline,” I whisper, lifting my hand toward her.
She somehow looks the same but different. Her hair is several inches longer than I remember it being on the pillow when she was spread out below me.
She’s slow to cross the room, a wariness playing across her face.
She inches closer, her body leaning over mine, her chest shaking with a sob.
“You’re okay?” Her words get lost in my shoulder, and I find myself incapable of words as emotion rides a wave up my throat.
I nod because it’s the only thing I feel capable of as I cling to her.
She pulls back much too soon, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
We hold hands, my finger playing with the engagement ring I placed on her finger, still feeling just as lucky now as I did the day she said yes to me.
“I’m so confused,” I confess, my eyes searching hers.
I lift my hand to wipe away her tears, but she’s faster, dashing them clear with the back of her hand.
“Something happened. Was I shot? This doesn’t seem like Bahrain.”
She shakes her head, her eyes darting across the room as if she doesn’t have the answers either.
Both women who have spoken to me did so with American-accented English, giving me the indication that I’m no longer in Bahrain.
“You’re in Farmington, New Mexico.”
I tilt my head, my hands tightening on hers. The name of the town is familiar, but I just can’t pull why from my memory.
I pull her toward me, needing her closer, needing her lips on mine.
She stops me before our lips can meet.
“Is it my breath?” I joke.
Her eyes lock on my chest as memories come back to me.
The way she held that other man. The way she let him do those things to her. The lack of care when she looked in my direction.
I shake my head. She wouldn’t cheat. She’s loyal, dedicated.
I consider that something else is wrong, but she refuses to look me in the eyes.
“Did you move on while I was out?” I ask, anger threatening to take over.
If she did, how long have I been down?
She shakes her head. “Brent.”
“You vowed to love me,” I remind her. “We said we’d never go to bed angry.”
She shakes her head, but not in a way that is telling me that she’s disagreeing with my question.
“You’re the most important person in my life. You’re my wife.”
A sob escapes her throat, and I watch as she battles with those emotions. She’s slow to pull her hands from mine, but I have to let go when she scoots back a few more inches.
“We aren’t married.”
Pain lashes at me, making my heart skip a beat. It feels as if the wind has been knocked from my lungs.
