Chapter 5: What?

I woke in a bed with an IV in my arm. Everything felt numb. Even the whites and beiges of the room appeared muted.

A person sat in the chair beside my bed. She didn’t look like the person I hadn’t killed, too clean, healthy. But I knew, based on the cuts on her forehead and sad eyes. Not that I could have described her if asked. After all that time in the chair across from her and so close, so very close to killing her, I didn’t really know what she looked like. I could have told you about the shape of her right ear or the cleft on her chin, but not her whole face. I could not have picked her out in a lineup. Only the context of her, here beside me, allowed me to guess correctly.

For the first time, after the whole ordeal, I could see her face, her whole face. Not beautiful. Not ugly. Just plain. Someone who could easily get lost in a crowd, but still distinct enough that I would have normally remembered her. To cast her in a horror movie, they would have the starlet only wear subtle makeup, or no makeup. And maybe glasses to give her the girl-next-door vibe. But in real life, in that bed, with my body half broken, my mind shattered, and my emotions stunted, I hated her face, her frown, her sad eyes. No idea why, I just did.

“They’re letting me go. Thanks to you not killing me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do what you did. The guy just had to die. Beat him so badly that I broke my hand. But you passed,” she said, stood, wobbled, braced herself against the wall, and hobbled through the cloth door.

I wanted to yell at her. To scream in frustration that I almost killed her. That I would have killed her if I didn’t have my wife and daughter to think about, but I only managed a small hand raise. She killed the other person. I should have at least beaten her, punished her, and I wanted to, but instead, just watched her leave.

My finger on that hand didn’t have my wife’s engagement ring on it. The quiet beeps of the machine beside my bed increased in rhythm and volume, like a machine gun, fast, as I scanned the barren room.

The bed, the chair, a small desk, the machine, the IV bag, but no ring. But the desk had a drawer, small, white, with a white handle, and inside, on the white plastic, the ring sat, next to my utility knife and my leather wallet.

The ring went on my finger, the cubic zirconia turned inward to protect it, while I placed the knife on the table beside the box of tissue. I left the wallet in the drawer, because, for some reason, like a premonition, I didn’t think I would need it.

The beeps slowed, my breath relaxed, as I lay on the bed, stared at the concrete ceiling, and twisted the ring around and around my finger. Many nights I had lain in that position and tried to think about nothing. My cuts, bruises, and burns outside my body resembled my inner emotions. And instead of the vanilla scent that always lingered on my bed, as my daughter loved, the bed smelled of bleach.

A small woman, half the height of the other lady, child-sized, but with grey hair, clear glasses, and dark skin that hid her blemishes, entered the room. She held an ultra-thin tablet, which she tapped with dark red, the color of blood, nails. Her moist, dark red lips moved, spoke something, but the air conditioning, the fans, or the buzz in my ears drowned out her soft voice.

A whiff of jasmine reminded me that my body no longer reeked from that room. That the slime no longer clung to my hands nor coated my lungs. In fact, my cuts had partially healed, or at least didn’t hurt. How long had I slept?