Chapter 20:
A vice-like pressure clamped my eyelids shut, a force invisible but insurmountable. With Herculean effort, a sliver of sight was gained, only to be assaulted by the sterile glare of a fluorescent light crowding the ceiling above me. My throat birthed a pained groan as I willed my hand to respond, its flesh feeling more akin to marble than skin. Each attempt to flex those frozen fingers resulted in trembling, and a surge of panic bubbled beneath my confusion.
Gradually, the room swam into focus, the piercing light now bearable. The space loomed large and impersonal, filled with the rhythmic hum and beep of machines that seemed to speak a language of life and urgency. A gray door stood sentinel across the room; beside it, an identical bed to mine held an occupant whose presence tugged at the edges of my awareness.
Beneath me lay the gray and white spotted blanket, a shield masking the condition of my own body. A chill of dread snaked up my spine—the lower half of me felt detached, a distant land cut off by an unseen chasm. As my neck muscles obeyed, turning my head felt like dragging stone through molasses. But turn it did, revealing a leg encased in a fortress of blue—a cast.
Ron's eyes met mine, brimming with emotions that knotted my stomach—worry etched into his features and sadness lingering in the downturn of his lips.
"Ron," I whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the sterile air.
"Are you alright?" His voice, laced with concern, reached me as he swung his legs over the edge of his bed, the cast making his movements awkward.
"Ron, what happened?" My words emerged choked, strangled by the tears that welled and spilled over, tracing hot paths down my cheeks.
His face crumpled, sorrow carving deeper lines. "I am so sorry," he murmured, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears.
With a laborious limp, Ron closed the gap between us, taking my hand into his—a lifeline thrown across the void of uncertainty. His touch was warm, grounding, despite the tremor that ran through it.
"Are you okay?" My voice, barely above a whisper, was heavy with worry for him despite my own distress.
"Yes, I'm fine. It's just a broken leg," he replied, mustering a semblance of strength as he brushed away a solitary tear.
"And what about me? What's broken on me?" Anxiety clawed at my voice as I tried to lift the blanket, desperate for answers.
His hand gently restrained mine, halting my search. "You're fine," Ron assured me, though the tremble in his voice betrayed the gravity we both felt.
"But I can't move my legs," I confessed, a fresh wave of tears breaching the dam of my resolve.
He squeezed my hand. "They said that's normal with all the medications they have you on for pain. It could take a few hours for the meds to wear off."
Relief, swift and sweet, washed through me, numbing the panic that had taken root. For now, I clung to that reassurance as the world around me remained a blur of beeps and whispers.
The clock's second hand seemed to taunt me with its slow, deliberate ticks, each one echoing in the cavernous silence of the room. Ron kept glancing at it, his eyes flicking from the clock to the door and back again. "I talked to mom. She should be here any minute now," he said, a note of hope mingling with the weariness in his voice.
As time sluggishly marched on, the iron grip of the medication on my limbs began to wane. First, a tingle in my toes, then a twitch in my foot—it was like watching the thaw of a deep winter freeze. A rush of relief flooded through me, making my heart flutter with newfound hope. But this reprieve was short-lived; as the chemicals receded, pain surged forward to fill the void they left behind. The brown Ace bandage around my hand felt like a shackle, reminding me of the trauma that lay beneath. Bruises bloomed across my skin, their colors darkening with each passing moment, and a throbbing headache started to hammer against my temples. I lifted a hand to the side of my head, gingerly probing the tender area, and suddenly, the memory exploded—a sickening crack, the spider-webbing of glass, the world spinning violently out of control.
![Wicked Games [Mature 18 +] **COMPLETE** by Aria_Glenrose](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/231979207-80-k963689.jpg)
A commotion drifted into our sanctuary of suffering—a familiar voice, rising above the murmur of the hospital. It grew louder, more insistent, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable. It was Lori, my mother, her maternal instincts bulldozing through the procedural barriers erected by the nursing staff. They attempted to soothe her, to relay our medical statuses with professional detachment, but she would have none of it. Her love, fierce and unyielding, propelled her past their protests and into our presence.
With the suddenness of a summer storm, Lori burst into the room, her arrival marked by the swift swing of the door and the sharp scent of rain—or perhaps it was the lingering freshness of shampoo. She paused for a split second, her gaze sweeping over Ron with an intensity that could mend or shatter. He endured her scrutiny, the scratches on his face a testament to our shared ordeal. Her fingers traced the contours of his bruises with a touch as soft as a whisper before she turned to me.
"Mom," I breathed out, the word a mixture of comfort and dread.
Her attention shifted, and as her eyes found mine, I saw the storm within them. The sight of me, so still and broken upon the bed, struck her like a physical blow. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the gasp that threatened to escape as she took in the full extent of my injuries. The nurse, a silent sentinel until now, stepped forward to offer some solace in the form of clinical facts: a small concussion, no severe damage, observation recommended.
Lori's resolve hardened, her voice slicing through the clinical calm. "She can rest at home. We'll take care of her there." Her words were not a suggestion; they were a declaration, a mother's edict born from an instinct to protect her cub. And yet, even as she spoke, the weight of responsibility—the gravity of my condition—seemed to press down on her. The nurses held their ground, gently insistent on the necessity of continued observation. And so, with a reluctant nod, Lori acquiesced to a compromise—a few more hours under their watchful eyes before the sanctuary of home would envelop us once more.
Ron's resilience was as clear as the daylight seeping through the window blinds. With a set of grey crutches under his arms, he navigated the small space between our beds with an awkward grace that spoke of determination. Lori, ever the sentinel, dragged a chair to sit vigil at the midpoint, her gaze flitting from Ron to me with maternal precision. It was a silent promise; she would catch us if we faltered.
The vestiges of medication clung to my senses, numbing the edges of pain that began to encroach with every pulse. A dull ache bloomed across my back and snaked down my arm, wrapping around it like ivy. The brown Ace bandage stood out against the stark hospital white, a visual reminder of my body's betrayal. My eyelids felt heavy, the world around me a lullaby coaxing me into the sweet surrender of sleep. I succumbed to the fatigue, the last tendrils of consciousness clinging to the sound of Lori's voice, a soft but firm lecture on the virtues of safe driving echoing in my ears before darkness took me.
Time slipped by—a thief stealing moments—until familiar voices called me back from the depths of slumber. Blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent bulbs, I struggled to bring the room into focus. Trish and Carter were perched like patient birds on the far side, their murmurs hushed until they noticed the flutter of my awakening.
"Hey, Akila," Trish greeted, her voice a soothing balm as she wrapped me in the gentleness of her embrace. Strands of her blonde hair brushed against my cheek, a sensory whisper of normalcy amidst the sterile environment. Carter waited his turn, a quiet strength emanating from him as his hand enveloped mine. His lips pressed a fleeting kiss to my knuckles, a touch of warmth in the cold room.
Their presence was comforting, yet my mind grappled with the disarray of memories, piecing together fragments of the accident. Amidst the blur, one thing stood out—the tension between Trish and Ron. My eyes drifted to Ron's bed, finding only the negative space he left behind.
