Red Star

After the Fire Part 1

When she wakes up, squinting immediately to guard her retinas from the light's assault, she is not in her own bed. She is alone. She is not in her monochrome sheets and she is not surrounded by the aroma of home; she is surrounded by the clinical scent of hospitals.

Glorious.

It's only then that she can hear the familiar beeps which inform her that she's still alive. They're regular, high-pitched, and if she's honest, really fucking irritating. Looking around to the table next to her bed that is just about as comfortable as a sheet of cardboard, she identifies three different 'get well soon' cards - Brandon, Douglas and Ralph, surely. She's wrong. In the place of where Ralph's card should be is a blank piece of folded card.

She doesn't even have to open it to know who it is from and what is inside. She's severely injured by the looks of things so far, not ill, but the sight of that card threatens bile to climb up her throat like smoke up an old and worn brick chimney.

Frustrated, she shoves the bedside table over carelessly, causing the cards to flutter to the floor as butterflies do, and the vase of flowers (that Brandon no doubt brought) to shatter into shards of diamonds as it hits the smooth, grey linoleum.

She takes this next opportunity to see the extent of her injuries this time. No amputations, thank God. That's always the first thing people like her have to check for; they would never be able to work again. Her legs are covered in bandages and so is her left hand, the bandages extending to about three quarters up her forearm and she begins to struggle to recall how she managed to let this happen to her. She's usually safe and will only come away with a scratch or two after a normal mission. Which means that this one wasn't a normal mission.

And that's the moment she notices her right arm in the sling.

From the tips of her chipped nails, her eyes explore up her forearm, stopping and analysing each scabbed scratch or purpling bruise, passing her elbow until her eyes reach her shoulder. Covered by a white bandage that wraps all the way around until it tapers off towards the middle of her upper arm, she knows exactly where the bullet wound is. Then the memories flood back in a tsunami wave that would have knocked her off of her feet had she been standing.

She glances at the lone chair, littered with Brandon's favourite jacket, least favourite scarf and a hat that she assumes is Douglas's. It's apparent to her quickly after the observation that Ralph is not sitting in it, reading the newspaper like she is so used to him doing by now. He isn't there to look up, run a quick hand through his messy chocolate locks that she complains about constantly, and gift her with a grin so bright it could blind. He isn't there to look at her injuries and laugh, reminding her of their ancient deal which would make her groan as she protests about having to do all of their paperwork for the next case they're given. He isn't there to read out a scandalous news headline in his most comic voice and he isn't there to comment on Brandon's choice of flowers, isn't there to ask she if she needs anything, isn't there to tell her how the mission turned out, isn't there to carefully and tenderly stroke her forehead, isn't there to hold her hand and grab it again after she pulls away, isn't there to make a joke about her inability to keep herself safe, isn't there, isn't there, isn't there. He isn't there at all.

And then she is gasping for air.

Her screams alert the nurses and bring around six into her little hospital room and it takes double that amount (once she'd pushed, punched, scratched or slapped the first wave away) to hold her back down onto her bed after she'd rolled off in escape, which had only brought a blast of pain and another six nurses into her room.

She's writhing, screaming, trying to tear her arms away so she can block her ears from the screaming in her head that makes her skin crawl. She has never experienced this before. There are three voices screaming in her head and there are four doctors shouting for a few of the nurses recovering from her attacks to find some man called Frank.