Rebel (Dead Man's Ink #1)
Callie Hart
ALEXIS
A brief thought on death.
I never thought I’d die on the streets of Seattle. I never thought I’d be the kind of person to wish for death, either. You ask people what frightens them most in this world and nine times out of ten, you’ll get the same universal answer: death. The Great Unknown. That one last wild ride. I used to be one of those people, paralyzed by the mere thought of non-existence. Seems a lot has happened recently to adjust my outlook, though. Now, I’ve realized there are more frightening things than simply ceasing to be. Living, for example. Continuing to breathe, even though it feels like your heart is shattered into a million pieces and you can’t possibly go on another moment. Continuing to feel, even when your nerve endings are so frayed and overloaded from pain inflicted by others. Continuing to hope, despite the odds of rescue growing smaller and smaller each day.
I never thought I’d die on the streets of Seattle. I never thought I’d want to die. Beg for it. Wish for it constantly. I suppose my ingratitude for the great gift this life poses might be hard to comprehend. Perhaps if I started from the beginning, you might understand.
Here.
Let me explain.
ALEXIS
2012
St. Peter’s hospital looms over the city, the building a crouched, disapproving sentinel blaring light and sound into the night. Fog blossoms on my breath. Curled around my takeaway coffee, my hands are finally beginning to thaw out. I’m listening to Led Zeppelin on my busted iPod with the cracked screen, watching people stream in and out of the hospital, and imagining their stories. Filling in the blanks from the expressions on their faces.
Broken leg.
Chest pain.
Only one more shift before the weekend, thank god.
New baby.
Lost loved one.
It never ceases to amaze me how a person’s face alone can convey so much of what they’re feeling, especially when they don’t know they’re being watched. I’ve seen the whole world crumble and be reborn at least five times before the cell phone, in the pocket of my thick Parka, rumbles against my stomach. It’s my dad.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Are you still on the bus?”
I smile. I smile because the old man is clueless. “No, I’m outside. I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”
He groans. In my mind I can see him pressing his fingertips into the creases of his brow, trying to figure out the problem he’s presented with. Because there’s a problem. There’s always a problem. “Ah, okay. All right, I’ll be out in a moment. A little girl just came in. She was in a car accident. Her whole leg’s shattered. They asked if I could stay behind and monitor her while they operate, but I’ll just tell them to—”
“Dad?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“It’s fine. I can catch a bus back to your place. It’s not a big deal.” This is not the first time I’ve said these words, nor will it be the last. Since I decided to stay in Seattle and go to college here, it’s been tradition to go back home every Sunday to hang out with my parents. They’re big on church, big on Jesus. They like it when I spend Sunday nights with them. Most of the time, Dad’s working, though, and Sloane, my older sister, is following in Dad’s footsteps, training to be a doctor, so she’s hardly around either. Usually it’s just Mom and me, and I’m used to that. Used to the endless cups of tea and church gossip. Used to doing the dishes after dinner and sitting in comfortable silence while we watch whatever inane reality TV show Mom’s hooked on at the time.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Dad asks. This is a script both of us have repeated countless times; we barely need to think before the words slip out of our mouths.
“I’m sure, Dad. It’s okay. Go and anesthetize the crap out of that kid.”
Dad tuts—is crap a curse word? Dr. Alan Romera sure thinks it is, but then again, the old man thinks shoot is a curse word. His disapproval is, as always, mild and affectionate, though. “Love you, sweetheart. I’ll see you when I get home. Tell your mother not to put dinner in the oven for me, okay? I’ll heat it up when I get back.”