CHAPTER ONE
RYAN
6 Weeks After Beautifully Broken
*This book contains sensitive subject matter. If you are easily triggered or have experienced serious trauma, this book may not be for you. Not recommended for persons under 18 years of age.
Every time I try to open my eyes, they feel weighted with heavy moments. Love lost. Shattered friendships. Broken bones. The past several months of my life have been so filled with “what the hells?” and “why mes?” that I’m convinced I’m stuck in a sadistic nightmare, a life not even close to my own.
After providing my body as a human shield for the girl I gave my heart to—taking the brunt of the explosion with the skin on my back while watching my future escape in the arms of her last love—I’m pretty confident that I’m getting smoke blown up my ass by well-meaning doctors, telling me I’m lucky to be alive. Clearly, our perceptions of “lucky” are measured on two vastly different scales. And my ability to see the glass half-full has been left back in the woods where I became a human firework.
The details surrounding my heroism are still a little fuzzy, but, some days, I think I can still hear the screams of fear tearing through the forest canopy, feel the burn of the billowing heat on my back, even hear the shrill cry of the machine announcing my death.
I was dead for one minute and ten seconds.
One minute and ten seconds without life. Without a heartbeat. Without breath. Without thought.
Not many people experience death and live to tell about it. And I know this is where my lucky characterization comes from. But, at the moment, I’m finding it hard to feel the gratitude I’m supposed to be feeling. My heart is too damaged. Or more accurately, missing. It’s in the hands of the bane of my existence, Gavin Hunter, and it’s fucking killing me all over again. It’s killing me knowing that Hannah’s probably with him, right now, giving him the love she used to give me.
Even still, despite the outcome I’ve been given, I wouldn’t change my decision to protect her. It was an instant reaction. Instinct. My only concern was for her and her safety. And, despite my grumbling, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
I know she didn’t deliberately hurt me, though it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less. She loves me. She just loves him more. It’s a fact I’m not ready to forgive just yet, and I claim my right to be bitter while I have plenty of time to stew in the shitty truth, grasping onto the one, tiny relief in my dismal immediate future: the medication fed through my drip.
Usually, the strong drugs are able to take away the majority of my physical pain and provide me with the reprieve of induced sleep. When they do, they allow me to go to a place where my reality is hidden behind the wall of medicated bliss, and I’m surrounded by rainbows and unicorns, instead of facing the fact that the broken body lying here is mine—the consequence of being involved with a vengeful bastard. Though today, their capacity to dull my pain just isn’t cutting it.
It’s been six weeks since I was brought to this hospital. In a coma. The nurses told me that immediately after I arrived, my family—as well as my friends, Charlotte and Scott—had come to visit me. Even Hannah and Gavin made several appearances while I was unconscious. They’ve all been very persistent with their request to see me. But when I woke up two weeks ago, I was able to get my parents to feed my friends the story that I was still comatose, and that they would prefer to spend this time with me, alone, as I heal. It was plausible enough to stop the random visits. They wanted to respect my parents’ wishes. And as a result, I’ve been able to avoid the inevitable, uncomfortable confrontations.
There was no way I could convince myself to see them. I didn’t want to be the focus of their pity. I didn’t want them to see me like this. Broken. Damaged. Covered in ugly scars, reminding me of what I’ve lost. I didn’t want to have Hannah within my reach and not be able to have her as my own. My pride wouldn’t allow it. My heart wouldn’t. Therefore, I ensured the story was to be maintained, indefinitely, until I’m ready to deal with everything I’ve chosen to ignore.
I spend most of my days staring at the minimally-decorated, pale blue walls of my room. The large window allows the sun’s morning glow to cast orange hues everywhere. But once noon comes around, the room’s cool hue returns to remind me of my solitude, and I wonder if my bland scenery will ever change. Once I’m overwhelmingly bored with the monotony of my four walls, I lock my gaze on my sheet-covered feet at the extent of my long legs, at the end of the bed.
Rinse. Repeat.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” the nurse on duty announces as she briskly walks over to the cluttered mess of wires and tubes attached to my I.V. and monitors.
The incessant beeping of the alien contraptions is only mildly less annoying than the gnawing pain in my back and limbs. It continually reminds me that my heart still beats, despite its previous cease and desist. But it also emphasizes the fact that I’m here, in a hospital room, because of my blind devotion to those who don’t reciprocate it. It keeps pulsing…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…
I’m too wrapped up in my sulking to look up. I just stare, unfocused, at my feet, sensing her movement in the outer edges of my vision. I feel like a new man. Not one transformed for the better, but one unrecognizable from the humorous, high-on-life man I was before. That man is gone. He died along with the ex-chief of police who had finally lost his connection with reality. Our lives were blown to pieces that day, and I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to reassemble mine.
But, maybe I don’t want to. There’s nothing left for me in that life. It’s just a darkened stain left behind on a sullied carpet, showing me where everything I had used to be. A constant reminder of the good before it vanished—disintegrated with the rest of the forest that surrounded the blast.
“How are you managing your pain from the skin grafts? Do I need to up your medication?”
The chaos in my head has turned me into an asshole, and I find myself not wanting to answer, but she pushes for a response.
“Ryan?”
“It feels like I’ve been skinned alive. So I’m feeling absolutely fantastic,” I finally reply with my usual abundance of sarcasm.
The nurse ignores my cynicism and replies, “Sadly, that’s to be expected, considering how extensive your burns are. I’ll up your medication to make you more comfortable.” She presses several buttons, and shortly after, the raw pain dulls to a manageable prickling over my skin. “Now, I have to change your dressings. I’d prefer to have you sitting up for this. To get you moving around. Are you okay if I help you?”
Her silvery voice finally draws me from my despondent stare. My weighted lids slowly rise, following the floral pattern of her scrubs to the chocolate brown gaze expecting an answer.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” my pride answers reluctantly. I’ve never been so helpless before. But with my fractured right shoulder, ankle and wrist, as well as a torn rotator cuff, I’m left dependent on anyone that can help. I’m told everything is healing nicely. But nicely doesn’t mean quickly, so I’m forced to feel emasculated while I mend.
She stands in front of me to brace herself against my weight. Her hands are pleasantly soft when they wrap around my good arm and guide me upright. The faint scent of lavender wafts up to my nose from her closeness. It’s calming. My head dips, and I absentmindedly look up through my lashes at her name tag.
Brianna.
Pretty name.
Letting my eyes scan over her, I see her toned arms peeking out of the short sleeves of the scrubs that dwarf her potentially athletic body. Her golden blonde hair is pulled back into a moderately sized bun on the back of her head, allowing a clear view of her slim oval face. She has prominent cheekbones, a tiny button nose, and an automatic pout on her lips when she concentrates on lifting me gently.
Even in my despondent state, I can see she’s attractive. More than attractive. She’s beautiful. Though there’s only one woman that still fills every part of me, and she’s a brunette with big grey eyes and a smile that will always bring me to my knees.
With the restricted motion of my arm, I’m very little help. Struggling against the weight of my upper half, my abs tightly contract to pull me upright. Considering how much muscle tone I’ve probably lost—in the past six weeks of doing absolutely nothing—my body still takes a substantial effort to lift with my stomach alone.
When I’m positioned close to the edge of my bed, she pushes aside my johnny shirt and gingerly tugs on the tape holding the bandages covering my back. Each piece pulls against the taut skin, prickling as they finally release the surface they’ve attached to. After cleaning and applying ointments to my wounds, she applies the new barrier and smooths her fingers over the surface.
“The grafts seem to be healing quite well. In about another week or so, the skin should be healed together, and the bandages will be able to be removed. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I solemnly reply, feeling the strong effects of inadequacy.
I’ve never been a weak person. I’ve always been running on all cylinders—full of energy—always diligent with my exercise regime. I relentlessly pushed myself harder until I lifted my last rep. Currently, that reality doesn’t exist. And the time passing at an indescribably slow rate allows me to dwell on my new inactive lifestyle.
It’s depressing.
“Okay, now that that’s done, it’s time for your physical therapy.”
She leaves my side to walk over a black wheelchair that she must’ve brought in when she first came here—when I was too stuck in my own head to notice. She returns to the edge of the bed to help guide me down. My long legs are only inches off the floor. Still, she wraps her right arm around my left one and grips it with her left, basically hugging it to get the leverage to make the tiny descent easier.
With her close proximity, I get to better enjoy the calming effects of the light lavender fragrance that surrounds her. It’s not strong enough to be a perfume, but must be the residual smell of her shampoo or body wash. The natural sedative soothes away the tormenting thoughts that seem to be ever-present, and it’s quickly becoming my new favourite scent.
Despite the small distance to the floor, the movement pulls against the taut, healing skin and puts pressure on my casted foot. Even the medication can’t stop the pain that builds. It gives me a sharp reminder that it’s still there, and I have to bite on my lip to stifle a groan.
I was told that the therapy I’m about to start is the next step in the healing process, though I’m on the fence with my enthusiasm. The road to recovery will be long and arduous. But, I guess, in the end, it’s supposed to be worth it. The doctors say I’ll be able to get back to the life I used to have. But there’s one problem with this assurance…
That life is no longer waiting for me.
After providing my body as a human shield for the girl I gave my heart to—taking the brunt of the explosion with the skin on my back while watching my future escape in the arms of her last love—I’m pretty confident that I’m getting smoke blown up my ass by well-meaning doctors, telling me I’m lucky to be alive. Clearly, our perceptions of “lucky” are measured on two vastly different scales. And my ability to see the glass half-full has been left back in the woods where I became a human firework.
The details surrounding my heroism are still a little fuzzy, but, some days, I think I can still hear the screams of fear tearing through the forest canopy, feel the burn of the billowing heat on my back, even hear the shrill cry of the machine announcing my death.
I was dead for one minute and ten seconds.
One minute and ten seconds without life. Without a heartbeat. Without breath. Without thought.
Not many people experience death and live to tell about it. And I know this is where my lucky characterization comes from. But, at the moment, I’m finding it hard to feel the gratitude I’m supposed to be feeling. My heart is too damaged. Or more accurately, missing. It’s in the hands of the bane of my existence, Gavin Hunter, and it’s fucking killing me all over again. It’s killing me knowing that Hannah’s probably with him, right now, giving him the love she used to give me.
Even still, despite the outcome I’ve been given, I wouldn’t change my decision to protect her. It was an instant reaction. Instinct. My only concern was for her and her safety. And, despite my grumbling, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
I know she didn’t deliberately hurt me, though it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less. She loves me. She just loves him more. It’s a fact I’m not ready to forgive just yet, and I claim my right to be bitter while I have plenty of time to stew in the shitty truth, grasping onto the one, tiny relief in my dismal immediate future: the medication fed through my drip.
Usually, the strong drugs are able to take away the majority of my physical pain and provide me with the reprieve of induced sleep. When they do, they allow me to go to a place where my reality is hidden behind the wall of medicated bliss, and I’m surrounded by rainbows and unicorns, instead of facing the fact that the broken body lying here is mine—the consequence of being involved with a vengeful bastard. Though today, their capacity to dull my pain just isn’t cutting it.
It’s been six weeks since I was brought to this hospital. In a coma. The nurses told me that immediately after I arrived, my family—as well as my friends, Charlotte and Scott—had come to visit me. Even Hannah and Gavin made several appearances while I was unconscious. They’ve all been very persistent with their request to see me. But when I woke up two weeks ago, I was able to get my parents to feed my friends the story that I was still comatose, and that they would prefer to spend this time with me, alone, as I heal. It was plausible enough to stop the random visits. They wanted to respect my parents’ wishes. And as a result, I’ve been able to avoid the inevitable, uncomfortable confrontations.
There was no way I could convince myself to see them. I didn’t want to be the focus of their pity. I didn’t want them to see me like this. Broken. Damaged. Covered in ugly scars, reminding me of what I’ve lost. I didn’t want to have Hannah within my reach and not be able to have her as my own. My pride wouldn’t allow it. My heart wouldn’t. Therefore, I ensured the story was to be maintained, indefinitely, until I’m ready to deal with everything I’ve chosen to ignore.
I spend most of my days staring at the minimally-decorated, pale blue walls of my room. The large window allows the sun’s morning glow to cast orange hues everywhere. But once noon comes around, the room’s cool hue returns to remind me of my solitude, and I wonder if my bland scenery will ever change. Once I’m overwhelmingly bored with the monotony of my four walls, I lock my gaze on my sheet-covered feet at the extent of my long legs, at the end of the bed.
Rinse. Repeat.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” the nurse on duty announces as she briskly walks over to the cluttered mess of wires and tubes attached to my I.V. and monitors.
The incessant beeping of the alien contraptions is only mildly less annoying than the gnawing pain in my back and limbs. It continually reminds me that my heart still beats, despite its previous cease and desist. But it also emphasizes the fact that I’m here, in a hospital room, because of my blind devotion to those who don’t reciprocate it. It keeps pulsing…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…
I’m too wrapped up in my sulking to look up. I just stare, unfocused, at my feet, sensing her movement in the outer edges of my vision. I feel like a new man. Not one transformed for the better, but one unrecognizable from the humorous, high-on-life man I was before. That man is gone. He died along with the ex-chief of police who had finally lost his connection with reality. Our lives were blown to pieces that day, and I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to reassemble mine.
But, maybe I don’t want to. There’s nothing left for me in that life. It’s just a darkened stain left behind on a sullied carpet, showing me where everything I had used to be. A constant reminder of the good before it vanished—disintegrated with the rest of the forest that surrounded the blast.
“How are you managing your pain from the skin grafts? Do I need to up your medication?”
The chaos in my head has turned me into an asshole, and I find myself not wanting to answer, but she pushes for a response.
“Ryan?”
“It feels like I’ve been skinned alive. So I’m feeling absolutely fantastic,” I finally reply with my usual abundance of sarcasm.
The nurse ignores my cynicism and replies, “Sadly, that’s to be expected, considering how extensive your burns are. I’ll up your medication to make you more comfortable.” She presses several buttons, and shortly after, the raw pain dulls to a manageable prickling over my skin. “Now, I have to change your dressings. I’d prefer to have you sitting up for this. To get you moving around. Are you okay if I help you?”
Her silvery voice finally draws me from my despondent stare. My weighted lids slowly rise, following the floral pattern of her scrubs to the chocolate brown gaze expecting an answer.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” my pride answers reluctantly. I’ve never been so helpless before. But with my fractured right shoulder, ankle and wrist, as well as a torn rotator cuff, I’m left dependent on anyone that can help. I’m told everything is healing nicely. But nicely doesn’t mean quickly, so I’m forced to feel emasculated while I mend.
She stands in front of me to brace herself against my weight. Her hands are pleasantly soft when they wrap around my good arm and guide me upright. The faint scent of lavender wafts up to my nose from her closeness. It’s calming. My head dips, and I absentmindedly look up through my lashes at her name tag.
Brianna.
Pretty name.
Letting my eyes scan over her, I see her toned arms peeking out of the short sleeves of the scrubs that dwarf her potentially athletic body. Her golden blonde hair is pulled back into a moderately sized bun on the back of her head, allowing a clear view of her slim oval face. She has prominent cheekbones, a tiny button nose, and an automatic pout on her lips when she concentrates on lifting me gently.
Even in my despondent state, I can see she’s attractive. More than attractive. She’s beautiful. Though there’s only one woman that still fills every part of me, and she’s a brunette with big grey eyes and a smile that will always bring me to my knees.
With the restricted motion of my arm, I’m very little help. Struggling against the weight of my upper half, my abs tightly contract to pull me upright. Considering how much muscle tone I’ve probably lost—in the past six weeks of doing absolutely nothing—my body still takes a substantial effort to lift with my stomach alone.
When I’m positioned close to the edge of my bed, she pushes aside my johnny shirt and gingerly tugs on the tape holding the bandages covering my back. Each piece pulls against the taut skin, prickling as they finally release the surface they’ve attached to. After cleaning and applying ointments to my wounds, she applies the new barrier and smooths her fingers over the surface.
“The grafts seem to be healing quite well. In about another week or so, the skin should be healed together, and the bandages will be able to be removed. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I solemnly reply, feeling the strong effects of inadequacy.
I’ve never been a weak person. I’ve always been running on all cylinders—full of energy—always diligent with my exercise regime. I relentlessly pushed myself harder until I lifted my last rep. Currently, that reality doesn’t exist. And the time passing at an indescribably slow rate allows me to dwell on my new inactive lifestyle.
It’s depressing.
“Okay, now that that’s done, it’s time for your physical therapy.”
She leaves my side to walk over a black wheelchair that she must’ve brought in when she first came here—when I was too stuck in my own head to notice. She returns to the edge of the bed to help guide me down. My long legs are only inches off the floor. Still, she wraps her right arm around my left one and grips it with her left, basically hugging it to get the leverage to make the tiny descent easier.
With her close proximity, I get to better enjoy the calming effects of the light lavender fragrance that surrounds her. It’s not strong enough to be a perfume, but must be the residual smell of her shampoo or body wash. The natural sedative soothes away the tormenting thoughts that seem to be ever-present, and it’s quickly becoming my new favourite scent.
Despite the small distance to the floor, the movement pulls against the taut, healing skin and puts pressure on my casted foot. Even the medication can’t stop the pain that builds. It gives me a sharp reminder that it’s still there, and I have to bite on my lip to stifle a groan.
I was told that the therapy I’m about to start is the next step in the healing process, though I’m on the fence with my enthusiasm. The road to recovery will be long and arduous. But, I guess, in the end, it’s supposed to be worth it. The doctors say I’ll be able to get back to the life I used to have. But there’s one problem with this assurance…
That life is no longer waiting for me.
