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Chapter Eight: Hazy Shade of Winter
Time, time, time
See what's become of me...Time, time, time
See what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to pleaseLook around
Leaves are brown
And the sky
Is a hazy shade of winterHear the Salvation Army Band
Down by the riverside
It's bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned
Carry a cup in your handLook around
Leaves are brown
And the sky
Is a hazy shade of winterHang onto your hopes my friend
That's an easy thing to say
But if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend
That you can build them againLook around
Grass is high
Fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my lifeSeasons change with their scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry
Won't you stop and remember meLook around
Leaves are brown
And the sky
Is a hazy shade of winterLook around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground~Simon and Garfunkel (as performed by The Bangles)
The thought cycled once more. I'll never sleep again.
Not that it was going to matter. They weren't going to want my other arm.
I contemplated rolling to my side. The right one, of course. The energy needed, not only to move my body but also to endure the pain without vomiting or blacking out, seemed drastically out of my reach.
Out of my reach. I wanted to laugh. I think the only reason I didn't was because that, too, would have been excruciating.
There was seepage on the cot again. It was starting to soak into the mattress. Again. The smell of it made me gag. Again. I considered calling for the nurse, but I heard the man in the next room wailing, again, and decided against it. She'd be in there at least another half an hour and wouldn't be able to hear me calling over his melodramatic screaming anyway. I'd screamed myself into silence. Now I didn't have a scream left. If I got an infection, they'd just have to take more off. I stared at the brown ceiling and thin tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes. No. I'd run first. Die first before anybody touched it. I hadn't even let them change my bandages. I'd torn her white blouse, and when the three men showed up to hold me down, I broke one's nose and another's wrist. I'd heard them talk about trying to get me into restraints. They were afraid to get that close with the straps.
When the nurse had come back with water, I saw the syringe concealed in her pocket. My eyes widened and I whispered around my torn throat, in Russian, of course, "Ban...dages."
She frowned at me, looking back at the different three men ready to risk me if I hurt her. She looked back at me and I swallowed. "Do it...my...self."
Her frown had deepened, like now I was more than dangerous; I was crazy, too. Maybe I was. But she'd placed the roll of bandaging near my right hand cautiously and set her water, cloth, and antiseptic on the table next to my small bed and she and the others had left.
That was two days ago. I wondered how long I would continue to ooze this revolting combination of pus and blood. I started to think I'd never heal. At least not properly. Even though they'd assured me by its coloration that this was 'healthy pus'. I knew as soon as I could stand without passing out, I'd be gone. I'd been changing my own bandages once a day rather than every three hours as I should have. They just didn't bring the bandaging often enough. Fucking rural Russian peasants. They were the ones, or ones like them, who had taken it off in the first place. And their surgeons had made the best of what was left. If I'd been able to even stumble any further at all, I would have passed this small, mal-equipped hospital all together. As it was, I'd passed out against their doors covered in my own blood and puke.
The man's screams in the next room started to fade to keening whimpers, my ears picking up the Russian words for 'please' and 'no more'. I reached up, biting back the pain, and pushed the pillow up tight to my right ear. I squeezed my eyes shut. It made no difference. I could still hear him, for obvious reasons. I opened my eyes and turned my head. I grabbed the empty plastic water pitcher by my bedside and threw it hard, grimacing. It hit the wall with a dull thud, nothing anybody would be able to hear.
I blinked the moisture from my eyes, training them on the solidity of the ceiling again. I compressed my lips. I choked on the sound of agony that wanted out of my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut again but felt panic at the black nothing that met me there. I opened them again, willing the ceiling to open up, to become sky, a blue sky with wispy clouds floating by, not the white winter sky of Russia, but the enveloping, vast, warm sky of Summer somewhere else. I willed some angel to come. Anything. Something not of this world. Something that didn't know me, that would see me here and fly down, pick me up and carry me away. I prayed. Prayed to Saint Lucifer, Patron Saint of Disfigured Assassins, Dark Angel of Lost Limbs and Lost Souls... My prayer consisted of one word: Please.
But the ceiling didn't open up. The sky didn't show itself, wintery white or otherwise. I waited an hour. Two. No angel came.
Finally, after about three hours, long after the man next door stopped screaming, I heard the nurse's footsteps in the hall getting closer. I lifted my remaining hand, wiped the coarse wet tracks from my cheeks, and waited for my bandages.
To Be Continued...
Series Name: History
Title: History, Chapter Eight: Hazy Shade of Winter
Author: Sage Fyre [email/website]
Details: Series | NC-17 | 5k | 06/02/07
Pairings: Mulder/Krycek
Category: Drama, Angst
Summary: See previous.
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