Page 123 of Trusting You
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Locke
Goddamn.
Goddamn, I hurt.
Each breath is like an icepick being driven into my chest, so I don’t gasp too deeply, keep my breaths shallow. I’m unwilling to feel that kind of stabbing pain on repeat.
The nurses won’t let me leave my bed. My left leg is hanging from an all-too-familiar strap, remaining elevated to reduce swelling.
I’m lucky, the doctors say, I didn’t sustain further damage to my mostly-metal kneecap. I’m lucky, they continue, I didn’t break my neck.
You’re right, I only dropped my eleven-month-old down an entire flight of stairs. So lucky. So fucking lucky I did that.
The docs cleared their throat at that. The nurses couldn’t look me in the eye.
“It’s not your fault,” one nurse dared to say.
Now it was my turn to look away.
When I came to the first time, the ambulance rocking my body in the worst way as we hit every pothole to the hospital, they had to restrain me. The agony in my chest bit at me with every exertion, every hoarse cry for my daughter, where was she, tell me where she is, take me to my daughter—my knee spiking with damage at each movement. But I didn’t care. Don’t care. All I want to know is what happened to Lily.
My Lily.
I want to die. Just fucking curl up and wither away like an old man as soon as I regain consciousness in this hospital room, the lights so bright the mere act of blinking brings tears to my eyes.
Where’s the black, I want to ask. Take me back there. If Lily’s hurt, take me to the black with her. I don’t want color anymore. Fucking erase the light.
A few minutes ago, I was assured Lily’s okay. Carter’s in the room with her. Carter—
And Lily is being well cared for and will likely be discharged by morning.
Me, however, I have a few days left in this gurney, both because of my knee, my fall, and oh, yeah, the blood clot we’re waiting to dissolve in my lung.
None of that matters, though, because I hurt my daughter.
She’s been admitted to the hospital, and it’s my fault, and she’s not even a year old. And I’ve only been responsible for her for not even a month. Two and a half weeks was all it took to fuck up epically.
My jaw clenches. The machine monitoring my heart starts beeping rapidly, and I tell myself to calm down. I’d only just gotten rid of the constant barrage of hospital staff and prefer the chance to further wallow alone.
“Locke?” a tentative voice asks at the door.
“Go away,” I say with a rasp. I frown at how much weakness is in the tone. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I register a dark sweep of hair, a golden arm before it hits me. “Carter.”
She stills with the door halfway shut. Her buttery eyes, framed by clumped, damp lashes, hover near the door.
“It’s okay.” I usher her in with a clumsy hand, an IV shoved into the center with tubes trailing down. “You can come in.”
“I don’t want to disturb you if you’re resting.”
“You could never.” I clear my throat, demand some masculinity back. “You’ve seen Lily?”
“I have. She’s doing great.” Carter moves closer to the bed, taking in every single part of me. She worries her lower lip.