The Darkness Within

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Two

An unyielding agony is my only company in the delirious darkness I can't seem to escape. It feels like dozens of knives are lodged in my left shoulder, slicing down my arm, causing unmanageable, stabbing pain.

I hear low voices around me, but it takes several moments before I can somewhat identify them. Even then, nothing being said quite registers—my brain is unable to function under the onslaught of unbearable pain.

"What's the diagnosis?" Sergei's lowly demands.

A foreign voice answers, "The bullet hit the labrum—"

"I don't know what that means."

"It's a rim of fibrous tissue that lines the glenoid. Put in simple terms, the glenoid lends to range of movement in the shoulder, and by extension, arm. It's a part of the shoulder's rotator cuff."

Sergei's voice becomes an irritated rumble. "What's the prognosis? What can be done? What are potential complications?"

"To ensure the patient doesn't experience long-term issues with mobility, immediate surgery to repair damage. After that, antibiotics and rest. Recovery time is six to eight weeks—during that time the arm needs to be in a sling, and she needs to be careful not to jostle or move it. After the wound is healed, physical therapy might be necessary—no way to know for sure. She also lost a lot of blood, so a transfusion needs to be done."

"Do it. All of it. If you fuck up, I'll kill you, and it won't be a pleasant or short death."

"R-right away, Mr. Novikov."

I feel a prick in my arm, and then the worst of the pain begins to dull. Agony turns to something ever so slightly more bearable, and I can feel myself exhale a sigh of relief.

A hand squeezes mine, and a deep voice rumbles in my ear, "You're okay, baby. Sleep."

It might be a minute or a thousand years later that my eyes drift open, and a sharp throb in my shoulder makes me wince slightly. I recall the orphanage, the Audi, and getting shot with a detached sense of acknowledgement, storing it all away to pick through and analyze at a later time, when my brain doesn't feel like it was stuffed full of cotton.

The room I'm in is lit by fluorescent lights that are hell on my sensitive vision, and the faint scent of lemon cleaner and rubbing alcohol permeates the air. It's obviously a hospital suite, judging by the fact that I'm the only patient in it, and it's a relatively spacious room. The bed is stiff, covered in white sheets. Next to me is a small table with a call button for a nurse, as well as a TV remote. Across the room, hanging on a wall by the door, is a flatscreen TV. Behind me are medical monitors, none of which are active or hooked to my body, which I take as a good sign. The only thing attached to me as an IV drip, leading to a catheter on my left hand.

My mouth is parched, my throat is dry, and my entire body feels stiff. A glance at my shoulder reveals that it's dressed in a clean white bandage.

I gingerly move my left arm, hissing slightly when that ignites pain.

If I had to guess, I've been out for maybe a day or two—but not longer than that. If I was unconscious for a prolonged period of time, moving any part of my body would be challenging.

Just as I'm about to press the call button and ask for some water, the wooden door to the room opens, and Sergei strides in. When he sees me sitting up, a visible expression of relief crosses his features.

He's next to me in three strides, kneeling on the tiled white floor beside me.

"You're awake," he breathes, looking me over with utmost attention, taking in every detail of my flimsy nightgown, blanket-covered legs, and the bandage on my shoulder. "How are you feeling?"