The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 35

Janice

I lose track of how long I'm in the hospital. For a while, I'm on bed rest, and they don't let me do much except watch TV. The long, monotonous days blend together, and boredom becomes the only thing that plagues me more than guilt.

At some point during my first week, I'm given a psychological exam by a balding man whose spectacles keep sliding so far down his nose I think they'll fall off until he pushes them back up. 

Apparently, I have minor PTSD. That's what they tell me, at least.

"I'm surprised it isn't worse," Dr. Forrest comments. "Considering... everything, I assumed you'd be much worse off."

"So this is a good sign?"

"Absolutely," she replies. "I want you to talk to Dr. Schroeder, though, just to keep tabs on how you're doing mentally. In the meantime, though, I think you're okay to have your phone back."

"Really?" I haven't even laid eyes on my phone since I arrived for training in December, over four months ago.

"Yep." She pulls the sleek black device out of the pocket of her green coat and hands it to me. "Catch up with your friends, entertain yourself. After all, once you're out of here, it's back to normal life."

"Wait... I get to go home?" I hadn't thought of that.

Dr. Forrest laughs. "Obviously! You've been discharged—honorably, of course. Don't worry about the war. You've done your part, now just focus on getting better. Your prognosis is excellent, by the way, so really just try to relax and take it easy."

I can't take it easy, though. Nearly every waking moment, I'm thinking about Slater. I don't think I've ever felt this badly in my life.

When Xavier and I parted ways, it wasn't so bad. I missed him, and I felt sad, but it was a juvenile kind of sadness; a self-pity brought on by a major inconvenience. I'd done such a good job convincing myself we'd see each other again that I didn't quite allow myself to grieve. By the time I acknowledged that it was over, I'd already moved on.

This is completely different. This isn't a breakup—it's a death. It's like something was torn out of me and left on the battlefield with Slater. He's gone forever.

Sometimes, I'll forget for a while. I'll get distracted by something, and when I remember, it'll feel like he died all over again. Some days, it's a physical pain in my chest, and I do nothing but cry for hours. Other days, there's just a numb, empty spot where something should be. A lot of the time, I wish I'd joined him. I wish that, wherever our souls go after death, I could have gone with him. Or better yet, I could have taken his place. Always, I blame myself.

Dr. Schroeder, my shrink, is concerned. When he finds out about these "dark thoughts," as he calls them, he asks me if I ever think of harming myself, or following through with any notion I have of joining Slater in the afterlife.

Annoyedly, I tell him no. Even in my current state, I'm smart enough to know that killing myself wouldn't change anything. I don't think I'd be capable of it. You don't go through what I've been through and then throw it all away; you come out the other side knowing there's some cosmic force keeping you alive. You pull yourself together and accept that out of everyone, you're the one here breathing.

Of course, the pulling yourself together part is much easier said than done.

When I sleep, I dream terrible dreams, and when I wake, the only thing to do is dwell on them. The only things I'm grateful for are the painkillers, and even those are fleeting; after a while, they'll wean me off of them to prevent a lasting addiction.