Asher ✓

41 | anaesthetic

JANUARY 12, 2016 / EASTCLIFF HOSPITAL

How can one know so much pain, yet still be so ill-equipped to deal with it? 

This was roughly along the lines of Asher's first thought when he woke. Roughly, because his mind wasn't thinking in full sentences, let alone phrasing questions. All he knew was obscurity. He realised that he hurt. And that he'd been hurt before. It was all familiar, see. His underused joints that whined like rusty door hinges. The tender, weak muscles that could barely twitch on their own, stabbing like fresh wounds when they did.

It was all familiar. Asher had known pain like an old friend since childhood, yet every meeting with it still knocked him off his feet. Or, was that the car?

The car. A car?

As consciousness gradually trickled back to Asher, more pieces of his life snapped into place. He remembered being in Australia. Is that where the accident happened? They drive topsy-turvy down under, he reasoned. Each click of the puzzle came with a fresh twinge in his skull, until thinking became torture in itself.

Taking a reprieve from the mental strain, Asher threw his head back on the pillow. For the first time, Asher scrutinised his surroundings in detail. The hospital room was small, but private. There was barely enough space for the bed, the bedside table and two small armchairs for overnight guests. No windows. Kitten poster on the wall. Air-conditioning set to freezing.

Then he examined himself. One glance was enough to explain why seemingly every part of him ached. A blood-filled syringe was attached to his elbow, connected by IV line to his bloodstream. Asher recalled his past experiences with surgery. That would sting coming out. His hands were bloodied but bandaged, weighed down by the layers of gauze. 

Asher gingerly lifted the covers to see the damage down below. His torso seemed to be fine save for thick bandages wrapped around his chest, indicating a few broken ribs. Lower down was also normal, until he caught sight of his left leg.

Rather, lack thereof.

In an instant, it was a like vice had been clamped around his skull, constricting his blood vessels and preventing him from breathing. The numbness slowly spread to the rest of his body. Asher could have simply been a granite sculpture of a man, such was the stillness of his limbs, the iciness coursing through his bloodstream, the heaviness of his heart. His vision began to swim, punctuated by black, fuzzy spots.

Alerted by both the pulse monitor on Asher's finger and the sounds of hyperventilating, a nurse rushed into his room.

"Oh, no," she muttered, quickly checking his patient information before calling for Vasily.

The only movement observable from Asher was the desperate heaving of his chest. Nothing else. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn't even twitch when his father came to his side, positioning himself over Asher with frantic worry in his eyes.

"My boy, my boy," he stuttered breathily. What with basically living, Vasily was beyond exhausted. 

He had essentially spent the last week at the hospital, only going home to shower. The days were grey and full of tension; Vasily was always on edge, staring at Asher's comatose form, asking a doctor for any updates, having to call relatives in Russia to calm himself down, but relapsing straight after and staring at his son again.