“Amelia,” he remarks, smiling as if to say he’s taken notice. “I just need to check on your wounds and see how you’re healing.” He waits a moment, taking an opportunity to grab my chart and look over all the details the nurses have been endlessly writing. “We also need to discuss your injuries.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, not needing to hear about my health. As the hours have ticked past, that sentiment has stuck with me. “When will I get to leave?”
“Not just yet, I’m afraid,” he admits in a sheepish tone. “Your injuries were extensive, Amelia.” The doctor speaks, and I can hear from that softness he executes his words with that what he’s about to say won’t be good for my already fragile heart. “We had to remove your spleen to stop part of the bleeding, but the additional stab wounds were lower in your abdomen. The damage we had to fix was quite a bit more severe.”
I hate how he fucking dances around the crux of the issue here. I flash my gaze up at him, daring him to speak, but when he looks petrified of me, I speak up.
“What are you trying to say exactly?”
He begins to sputter before easing into the matter at hand. “I’m saying that due to the abdominal trauma, conceiving a child on your own in the future will be risky. If you actually manage to do so naturally, you’ll be a high-risk pregnancy. That is if you can conceive in the first place.” There’s a pause, a silence so healthy and thick with emotion that I understand how he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s not impossible, but there is a higher chance you won’t be able to carry to term due to the damage.” There’s another annoying pause. “I’m sorry.”
Is that all he can say to me? He’s sorry; as if that’s going to make the world spin correctly and my heart not shatter furthermore to reveal my empty soul. He stands apologetically looking at me as if I’m going to find comfort or acceptance in his presence. It’s not that simple anymore. Things aren’t getting better with time. My brother just keeps taking from us piece by gloriously broken piece. First Manuel is dead, and now, my future of a happy family life with Zane is in catastrophic jeopardy.
I sit emotionally detached. The doctors began talking again and discussing what damage actually occurred, but I don’t comprehend a single word. Instead, I'm met with silence as the grief that was already so consuming now becomes unbearable. You’ll forever trap him into a life of misery, my thoughts awaken, darkening as even they take in what the doctor’s really saying – my future will always hang in the balance. At first, it was at the hands of my father, and now it’s because of my own brother. I will never be free from the ghouls I have as blood relations because they are far more superior to the weaklings who lived with a beating heart.
There are a few exchanges once the doctor’s finished and he sets to checking me over. Even though he’s pleased with my physical state, apparently my mental condition is deteriorating. I can see it in his eyes, his deliverance has sent me into shock and I just run with whatever he has to say. I couldn’t say muc anyway – my life is in tatters, no verbal reasoning is going to change a fucking thing about that.
“Ciao, dolcezza,” Zane announces his arrival, delivering a line of perfectly strung Italian.
Even in the midst of unhappiness, he shines a little brighter for more. I know he could wallow in anguish like I am, but he keeps smiling, keeps reminding me that life does continue on. He’s that one piece of solace I greedily want to keep. Now, however, he’s that one piece of solace I’m scared I’ll destroy forever with the new change to my health.
“Here,” he remarks and hands me over a bag.
I reach inside and peel back the sides of the paper bag to reveal an overdose of sugary goodness. He’s brought the one thing I brought him – Pixy Stix. I look up, bafflement sinking in, but he just grins.
“Payback,” he remarks, offering a playful wink to me. “I thought it was the least I could do.” I offer a small smile in response, but I find that I’m too emotionally unstable to say anything. That is the one thing that triggers Zane to respond, to really look at me. I know he realizes that I am grieving, but he can also pick up when I’m hurting more than I already am. The way his face changes tells me that he knows. “Have you been crying?” he asks, sitting on the edge of my bed – a place he’s favored more than anywhere else in this room.
“Yeah,” I sniffle, wiping the errant tears away. “I wasn’t expecting you back.”
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t keep me away,” he attempts to tease, but the notion is lost on me. The impact it usually has barely registers, and I just grin mirthlessly in response. “I took a quick shower and picked up some stuff for you and Enzo. I can’t stay away from this place while you’re stuck in here.”
“It’s boring here,” I utter; nonchalance is the only tone I’ve mastered since waking up. “And I’m not much company.”