Fourth Debt
Page 60
I LEANED OVER my brother.
The tubes and heart monitor made him look like some Frankenstein monster—pieced together with scraps from the man I once called friend, held together by sorcery and sheer luck.
His skin held a slightly yellow hue; his lips cracked and dry, parted to allow the tube down his throat.
The doctors had done all they could—patched him up and kept his heart pumping. It was up to him now.
A week and a half had passed. Ten excruciatingly long days. If it wasn’t for regular messages with Nila, I would’ve gone out of my mind with worry.
Her texts kept me sane.
Every hour, I grew stronger. I pushed myself until pain bellowed and my endurance improved. Every minute, I plotted my game plan, and every second, I thought of Nila.
She replied at night. Both of us under the same sky, writing by starlight, sending forbidden messages. She was in the world I used to inhabit; I was in a grave sent there by my father.
Yet nothing could keep us apart.
Soon, we’d both be free.
However¸ her messages weren’t like before. When Nila was still at home with her father and brother, she’d been timid and easily embarrassed. She’d been sweet and so damn tempting in her innocence. But now her texts were shaded with what she didn’t say. She kept so much back, only telling me what I wanted to hear.
It was fucking frustrating.
Why don’t you answer my calls, Nila?
Every time I’d dialled in-between our messages, she’d always ignored me and disappeared. Almost as if lying to me by innate characters was all she was capable of.
I needed to talk to her. I needed to find out the truth.
What I really need is to get out of this fucking place.
My side twinged, reminding me that I might be going out of my mind with impatience but I still wasn’t fight worthy.
Goddammit.
Kes’s heart rate monitor never stopped its incessant monotone beeping. I willed it to spike, to show some sign of him waking up.
Clasping his hand, I squeezed. “I’m here, man. Don’t give up.”
My other hand drifted to my torso, prodding the tender rib. Louille said I was lucky the bullet had passed so cleanly. He couldn’t explain the trajectory to miss such vital organs, but I could. Flying through the air, twisting into position to save my sister had kept me alive.
The bullet hadn’t found a perfect target.
Tracing the puckered skin through the thin cotton of a t-shirt I’d been given, I gritted my teeth. This morning, they’d removed my stitches. They’d discontinued my antibiotics and announced the good news.
I was healing quickly.
I’d agreed that was good news. I’d demanded to leave early.
But Louille just laughed as if I should be moved to the psych ward rather than recovery. His emotions shouted he was pleased with my irritation—it proved he’d excelled in his profession as healer—but his mouth said it wouldn’t kill me to wait another few days.
What he didn’t know was his words were too close to the truth.
Kestrel, on the other hand…
I squeezed his fingers again. He hadn’t woken up. He’d been in an induced coma for almost two weeks, giving his body time to heal. The bullet had entered his chest, rupturing his left lung, shattering a few ribs. Bone fragments had punctured other delicate tissues, ensuring his body had a lot more mending to do than mine.
His left lung had taken the full impact, deflating and drowning with blood. He’d been on the ventilator since arriving. Louille said if he caught pneumonia due to his system being so weak, there wouldn’t be much they could do.
I couldn’t think about that ‘what if.’
For now, he breathed. He lived.
You’ll get through this, brother. I have complete faith.
He’d always been the stronger one.
Louille also said Kes was alive thanks to the small calibre bullet Cut used and the rib that’d taken a lot of the original impact. He said it was surprisingly hard to kill someone with a gun—despite the tales—and proceeded to tell me a bedtime story—completely unsolicited—about a gang war in south London. A sixteen-year old had five bullets fired into him—one lodged in his skull, the other damaged his heart—yet he stayed alive and healed.
Kes would, too. I had to keep that hope alive.
The gentle whooshing of air being forced into my brother’s broken body soothed my nerves. Even though he wasn’t awake, I offered company and acceptance.
Hovering by his side wasn’t just about companionship.
I had a purpose.
My senses fanned out, waiting to see if any of his thoughts or emotions tugged on my condition. Day after day, I hoped he’d wake up. My sensory output stretched, seeking any pain or suffering—if I could sense him, then he was awake enough to emanate his feelings.
However, just like yesterday, I sensed nothing but blankness.
Sighing, I smoothed back his unruly hair. “You’ll get better. You’ll see. You’re not going anywhere, Kes. I won’t allow it.”
DANIEL’S LITTLE GAME turned out to be tic-tac-toe.
Only there was no winning, under any circumstance.
At the beginning, I’d refused to play, but he’d soon taught me that that wasn’t an option. Jasmine couldn’t do a thing about it. She was a spectator while I was the pawn for entertainment.
Family night, Bonnie called it.
An evening spent huddled in the gaming room where the Third Debt had been attempted. With no care or comeuppance, they played Scrabble, Monopoly, and cards.
The tubes and heart monitor made him look like some Frankenstein monster—pieced together with scraps from the man I once called friend, held together by sorcery and sheer luck.
His skin held a slightly yellow hue; his lips cracked and dry, parted to allow the tube down his throat.
The doctors had done all they could—patched him up and kept his heart pumping. It was up to him now.
A week and a half had passed. Ten excruciatingly long days. If it wasn’t for regular messages with Nila, I would’ve gone out of my mind with worry.
Her texts kept me sane.
Every hour, I grew stronger. I pushed myself until pain bellowed and my endurance improved. Every minute, I plotted my game plan, and every second, I thought of Nila.
She replied at night. Both of us under the same sky, writing by starlight, sending forbidden messages. She was in the world I used to inhabit; I was in a grave sent there by my father.
Yet nothing could keep us apart.
Soon, we’d both be free.
However¸ her messages weren’t like before. When Nila was still at home with her father and brother, she’d been timid and easily embarrassed. She’d been sweet and so damn tempting in her innocence. But now her texts were shaded with what she didn’t say. She kept so much back, only telling me what I wanted to hear.
It was fucking frustrating.
Why don’t you answer my calls, Nila?
Every time I’d dialled in-between our messages, she’d always ignored me and disappeared. Almost as if lying to me by innate characters was all she was capable of.
I needed to talk to her. I needed to find out the truth.
What I really need is to get out of this fucking place.
My side twinged, reminding me that I might be going out of my mind with impatience but I still wasn’t fight worthy.
Goddammit.
Kes’s heart rate monitor never stopped its incessant monotone beeping. I willed it to spike, to show some sign of him waking up.
Clasping his hand, I squeezed. “I’m here, man. Don’t give up.”
My other hand drifted to my torso, prodding the tender rib. Louille said I was lucky the bullet had passed so cleanly. He couldn’t explain the trajectory to miss such vital organs, but I could. Flying through the air, twisting into position to save my sister had kept me alive.
The bullet hadn’t found a perfect target.
Tracing the puckered skin through the thin cotton of a t-shirt I’d been given, I gritted my teeth. This morning, they’d removed my stitches. They’d discontinued my antibiotics and announced the good news.
I was healing quickly.
I’d agreed that was good news. I’d demanded to leave early.
But Louille just laughed as if I should be moved to the psych ward rather than recovery. His emotions shouted he was pleased with my irritation—it proved he’d excelled in his profession as healer—but his mouth said it wouldn’t kill me to wait another few days.
What he didn’t know was his words were too close to the truth.
Kestrel, on the other hand…
I squeezed his fingers again. He hadn’t woken up. He’d been in an induced coma for almost two weeks, giving his body time to heal. The bullet had entered his chest, rupturing his left lung, shattering a few ribs. Bone fragments had punctured other delicate tissues, ensuring his body had a lot more mending to do than mine.
His left lung had taken the full impact, deflating and drowning with blood. He’d been on the ventilator since arriving. Louille said if he caught pneumonia due to his system being so weak, there wouldn’t be much they could do.
I couldn’t think about that ‘what if.’
For now, he breathed. He lived.
You’ll get through this, brother. I have complete faith.
He’d always been the stronger one.
Louille also said Kes was alive thanks to the small calibre bullet Cut used and the rib that’d taken a lot of the original impact. He said it was surprisingly hard to kill someone with a gun—despite the tales—and proceeded to tell me a bedtime story—completely unsolicited—about a gang war in south London. A sixteen-year old had five bullets fired into him—one lodged in his skull, the other damaged his heart—yet he stayed alive and healed.
Kes would, too. I had to keep that hope alive.
The gentle whooshing of air being forced into my brother’s broken body soothed my nerves. Even though he wasn’t awake, I offered company and acceptance.
Hovering by his side wasn’t just about companionship.
I had a purpose.
My senses fanned out, waiting to see if any of his thoughts or emotions tugged on my condition. Day after day, I hoped he’d wake up. My sensory output stretched, seeking any pain or suffering—if I could sense him, then he was awake enough to emanate his feelings.
However, just like yesterday, I sensed nothing but blankness.
Sighing, I smoothed back his unruly hair. “You’ll get better. You’ll see. You’re not going anywhere, Kes. I won’t allow it.”
DANIEL’S LITTLE GAME turned out to be tic-tac-toe.
Only there was no winning, under any circumstance.
At the beginning, I’d refused to play, but he’d soon taught me that that wasn’t an option. Jasmine couldn’t do a thing about it. She was a spectator while I was the pawn for entertainment.
Family night, Bonnie called it.
An evening spent huddled in the gaming room where the Third Debt had been attempted. With no care or comeuppance, they played Scrabble, Monopoly, and cards.
