What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

I've never been in so much pain in my life. Okay, that's a lie. I've never been in this much physical pain in my life. Emotionally, I definitely have. But physically? This takes the cake. The worst thing that ever happened to me was when I may or may not have been playing apple-shot with Tori. You know, the apple on top of the head game? Let's just say it didn't end well.

But this ... this feels a thousand, if not a million times worse. My skin is on fire; my bones are molten lava, trying to push their way through my pores. My lungs feel like I've swallowed barbed wire, scratching and scratching and catching and pulling and tearing; I feel as though multiple fishing hooks are lodged in my throat, tearing me apart from the inside. And my back–

There's not much to see, but there's plenty to feel. I can feel the inside of a car, my fingers brushing against the soft fabric of what is possibly a seat. And my toes – I can wiggle them. I can actually wiggle them.

Tears squeeze from my eyes, and I've never been so relieved, so happy that I can move. I'm not broken. I'm alive, I'm still breathing. It's like a mantra, playing again and again and again in my head, even when I try to move other body parts and find that though I can, I can barely move.

My right arm is just about useless, and it hurts to lift and even move my fingers. But at least I can do it. But my back – I feel like a turtle, stuck on its shell and is helpless and vulnerable. But I lie on my stomach, cheek pressed to a leather seat.

I try to roll over, but the only thing I end up doing in hurting myself more and groaning and moaning and suddenly I'm on my back and it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts–

Nate's suddenly there, warm hands careful and gentle as he helps me up, his arm around my shoulders, easing me back onto my stomach. Tears just spill out of my eyes now, and all I can feel and register is the pain, the all-consuming kind.

I think I black out then, because the next time I open my eyes, Nate lies beside me, his hand in my hair, his touch gentle and soothing.

"There have been two times in my whole life where I've been scared absolutely shitless," he says quietly. He pushes the hair out of my face, which is damp and limp and dirty. "When Emmi was taken–" He can't bring himself to say it. But I know what he means. "And then you getting shot." He pauses again, takes a deep breath. "I thought you were dead."

From here on out, everything passes in a blur, not like snapshots, more like fuzzy moments that take on dreamlike qualities. Nothing grabs at me, takes hold properly; they all just flitter away, as if carried on a strong breeze. I see colours, I hear sounds, I feel pain, agonising pain. Everything blurs around the edges, and I want nothing more than to stay in the dark, the blackness, which mirrors my soul.

Every waking moment, no matter how brief, is consumed by pain. Some slicing, some agonising, some uncomfortable. I think I eat something at one stage. I think I sip some water.

I feel sick and sore and vulnerable. My life isn't in my hands anymore. This could be my last moment. This could be the end. Thankfully I won't be stuck underneath a car, some psychotic person trying to shoot at me with his rifle. But then–

Hey Mum, hey Dad. Hi Thea. I'll be seeing them soon. I'll run to them, arms open, ready to hug them to death (pun unintended this time) and I'll never, ever let go. I don't think I've been so excited in my goddamned life.

Who would've thought that I'd welcome Death with open arms. Actually, I'm pretty sure I mentioned something about Death earlier. I'm a hypocrite. I'm sure I said I'd go down fighting if and or when he came for me. But when you actually get to the moment, when everything is hanging in the balance, death has never looked so good. Especially when your family waits for you on the other side.