2020-12-04 - Survival Is the First Imperative

When he woke, Alexander’s first thought was, I can’t let Isabella see this.

He tried to roll to his feet, reaching out with what he thought was the good half of his bad hand, then screamed. His arms gave out, and he flopped to the blood flecked carpet and cried out again, this time a whimpering moan.

The carpet smelled like must. Needs cleaning, one part of his brain noted with inane precision. Another part, colder, says, You’ve had worse. Get up. Itzhak might be next. He might actually kill you.

He shook his head to himself against the carpet, but the movement made his body seize, and then vomit. He rolled to keep from inhaling it. He wouldn’t.

The cold voice doesn’t waver. You don’t know that. Assume you have nothing but enemies. You forgot. You paid the price.

“...s’not true,” he mumbled, and his tongue was thick and coppery in his mouth, with the sour aftertang of the puke coating it.

There was no argument, because he knew damned well he didn’t really believe it. You chose this, he reminded himself. You knew. You knew. You chose.

There was nothing but truth to that statement, so Alexander put it aside, and started trying to make his way to the bathroom. His legs weren’t too bad, perhaps a fracture or two; he forced himself to his feet, not trying to hold back the tears that mingled with the blood and the snot and the smears of vomit. His staggering path bounced him off the door frame, the wall, and nearly sent him tumbling over the cat, who had come out to make worried noises and try to rub against his ankles.

There was codine in the bathroom. Pressed on him the last time he’d been in the hospital. A whole bottle that he’d only ever used to offer to other people, and then only rarely. He collapsed onto the toilet, nearly fell off to one side. Bright explosions, white and red, went off behind his eyes, and he had no idea how long he sat there, staring and trying to figure out if he could breathe without stabbing any important organs with a broken rib or two.

Eventually, the wave passed. Alexander dared to look down at his hand. Two cleanly broken fingers had turned to a hand that was...pulped was a good word. Had Cavanaugh stomped on it? Taken a fucking hammer to it?

He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He heard a raspy growl in the ear of his memory, you deserve this. His breath hitched his throat. He deserved it. Yes. He was not a good person. He was a bad person, and had done bad things. This, and worse, was deserved.

It was more difficult than he’d figured to get out the first aid kit from under the sink with only one hand and an exciting catalogue of broken and bruised bones that screamed when he bent or turned. Three times, the kit fell before he could get it to his lap. By the third, Alexander was weeping with frustration and pain.

Opening it took his good hand and his teeth, and sent bandages and bandaids scattering across the floor. But the important part, the painkillers, they stayed in their little compartment. They were good pills. A hysterical giggle made its way out of his throat, and he imagined for a moment petting them. Good pills.

And then he realized the bottle had a child-proof cap, and the giggles turned into sobs. “Bad pills,” he croaked. “Bad fucking pills.”

He slumped back, resting his pounding his head against the wall. The temptation to go to sleep, or whatever darker deepness might be waiting for him, was strong.

No. The cold voice from the deepest part of him, again, sharp with contempt. Move. Live.

“But, I deserve…”

I don’t fucking care. You’ve had worse.

Alexander licked his lips, the taste was coppery, salty, sour. And the carpet really did need cleaning. “I’ve had worse,” he whispered, to himself, to make it real.

He took a deep, careful breath.

And got back to the process of living, inch by painful inch.