48
Sweetie? You really need to get up. All this napping isn’t healthy, not in the least.
Emory swatted absently at the air around her, at the thick fog that had settled over her thoughts. When her eyes blinked open, they saw nothing. She was only able to tell they were open because of how dry they were—the cool air on her pupils felt so gritty, she had to pinch them shut again. She tried to roll over but couldn’t.
Somebody was holding her down! Somebody pressed down on her back and shoved her into the concrete floor. God, don’t let him take my eyes! Don’t let him take my tongue! She braced herself, waiting for the pain of a blade to dip into her cornea and pluck out her eyes, or a hand to grasp at her throat and apply enough pressure to force her mouth open and—
Relax, sweetie. It’s just the gurney. Don’t you remember? That metal monstrosity fell down on you when you tried to lap up a little gutter water like a stray dog.
Everything came back in one quick flash, which was followed by an ache in her temple so great, she thought she might pass out again. Emory touched her forehead; her fingers came away sticky with drying blood.
Did you at least get a drink of water before all hell crashed down on you, dear? I don’t know about you, but I’m parched.
Judging by the state of her throat, she had not.
At first her wrist didn’t hurt. She felt nothing until she shifted her weight and tried to climb out from under the gurney, but when the pain did come, it came quickly. It felt as if her hand were separating from the rest of her arm at the wrist, seeming to cut through skin and bone like angry teeth. She tried to scream, but all that came out of her dry throat was a soft grunt.
Between the wrist and her battered head, dark semiconsciousness threatened to take her again. She fought it, though. Emory told herself that as long as she felt pain she was still alive and as long as she lived, she would recover regardless of what her current situation threw at her.
Oh, you go, girl. Girl power and all that. Nothing will play out on national television better than a girl missing her ear, with a stump for a hand, telling the world how she’s a survivor. Matt Lauer will eat that up. “How did you keep it together when your hand came off and all the blood started spurting out? I guess it felt good to be free, but hell, I bet it hurt something fierce, right?”
Was she bleeding?
With her good hand, Emory reached back and touched the extremely swollen muscle and tissue at the handcuff. There was blood, but not a lot. The cuffs had peeled back the skin nearly all the way around, but that wasn’t the part that bothered her most. She reserved that particular panic for the wrist bone protruding at such an odd angle under her touch. It hadn’t pierced the skin, but not for lack of trying. When she tried to move her wrist, it howled back at her and she went limp, sucking in a deep breath between her teeth.
Her wrist was broken for sure. For once, she was glad she couldn’t see.
Something told her she needed to stand up, and before another something talked her out of this course of action, she did just that, dragging the gurney up by her shattered wrist with a weak grasp until it was firmly balanced on four wheels. Then Emory stood, waiting in perfect silence bracing her shaking frame against the gurney, for the pain that was bound to follow.
The pain washed over her in a wave. Not only at her wrist but at her legs and arms as well. She wasn’t sure how long she had been out, but clearly it leaned more toward hours than minutes. Every inch of her body burned with numbness, then with pins and needles, finally with a deep throb that settled in, determined to stay awhile.
This time she didn’t scream. She was too shocked to realize she’d wet herself, the first time since waking here. The warmth trickled down her leg and puddled at her toes.
Emory stood there as Rod Stewart’s voice suddenly began to shout from above, the chorus of “Maggie May.”
She stood there and wondered how much longer it would take for her to die.