Chaos Palette

21.

Lilith found Ryle in the recovery room, his face, still covered in bandages, was pale, his brow furrowed even in sleep. She pulled a chair close to the bed, gently taking his hand in hers. It was cool and clammy, a stark contrast to the warmth she usually felt from him.

He jolted up with a sharp intake of breath, startling Lilith, pain coursing through his body. He screamed, "Turn it off! Turn it off!" repeatedly, his voice hoarse and desperate, until sedation was administered to him.

After some time, they carefully removed the gauze covering Ryle's face. But instead of relief, all he could feel was a searing pain from the light.

A few moments later, Ryle stirred, emitting a low moan. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and vacant at first.

"Lilith?" he croaked, his voice dry and hoarse. Upon feeling Lilith's hand on his, relief flooded his features, momentarily dispelling the fear.

"Yes, Ryle," she whispered, squeezing his hand gently. "It's me. You're out of surgery.".

"Took you long enough," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

Lilith flinched slightly at his attempt at humor, the stark contrast between his usual bravado and his weakened state tugging at her heartstrings. But a ghost of a smile played on her lips.

"Seems more like you woke up in a horror movie with all that screaming. Care to elaborate on the 'turn it off' bit?"

Ryle grimaced, a wave of nausea rolling over him. He squeezed her hand weakly. "The... the light," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "It hurts."

Understanding dawned on Lilith's face. His eyes, after years of darkness, were adjusting to the harsh fluorescent glare of the recovery room.

"Oh," she murmured, her voice soft and soothing.

Ryle closed his eyes, the pain a dull throbbing behind his eyelids. Despite the discomfort, a sliver of hope flickered within him. He could feel the warmth of Lilith's hand in his, hear the concern in her voice. Even in this sterile, painful environment, a sense of comfort anchored him.

The next few days were a blur of medication, discomfort, and frustrating limitations. The world remained a painful assault of light and blurry shapes. Yet, Lilith remained a constant presence by his side, her voice a beacon in the storm of confusion. She described everything, from the worried faces of the doctors to the paintings near his hospital bed.

One afternoon, as Lilith read aloud from a travel magazine, a spark of his old defiance flickered to life.

"Seriously, love?" he croaked, his voice hoarse. "Picturesque sunsets and crystal-clear beaches? Don't you think that's a tad... optimistic for my current situation?"

Lilith chuckled, a warm sound that filled the sterile room. "Maybe," she admitted. "But wouldn't you rather have something to look forward to? Something to fight for?"

A wry smile played on Ryle's lips beneath the gauze. "Fight for? Sounds more like I'm about to enter the Hunger Games – blindfolded and battling fluorescent bulbs."

Lilith squeezed his hand gently. "Alright, Grumpy," she teased, the nickname dripping with affection. "But you have to admit, the thought of seeing an actual sunset, not just my flowery descriptions, is pretty exciting, right?"

"Maybe," he conceded, a hint of hope peeking through his sarcasm. "Just promise me the first thing I see won't be another sterile white wall, Lily."

"My love," she whispered, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, the warmth a beacon in his darkness. "I promise."