CHAPTER ONE
RYAN
6 Weeks After Beautifully Broken
*This book contains sensitive subject matter. If you are affected by triggers or have experienced serious trauma, it may not be for you.
Not recommended for persons under 18 years of age.
Not recommended for persons under 18 years of age.
I was dead for one minute and ten seconds.
One minute and ten seconds without life. Without a heartbeat. Without breath. Without thought.
The details surrounding my passing are still a bit fuzzy, but some days, I think I can still hear the screams of fear tearing through the forest canopy, feel the burn of the billowing heat on my back, even hear the shrill cry of the machine announcing my death.
After the doctors managed to restart my heart, I spent the next four weeks in a coma, not able to breathe on my own, relying on them to keep me alive. And through it all, my family, friends, and the woman I love were there by my side, holding my hands, encouraging me to wake up. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that I finally opened my eyes, breathed air into my lungs, and asked my parents to make every single one of them leave.
I hadn’t wanted to see their pity…her guilt. Instead, I convinced my mom and dad to feed everyone the story that I was still comatose and that they needed time with me alone. It was plausible enough, and it gave me the much-needed time to escape the inevitable, uncomfortable encounter between me and the two people I wanted to leave behind the most: my ex-fiancée, and the man she chose to love instead.
After providing my body as a shield for the girl I gave my heart to—taking the brunt of an explosion with the skin on my back while watching my future escape in the arms of her last love—I’m pretty confident I’m getting smoke blown up my ass by well-meaning doctors, telling me I’m lucky to be alive. Clearly, our perceptions of “lucky” are measured on two vastly different scales. And my ability to see the glass half-full has been left back in the woods where I became a human firework.
I realize few people get to experience death and live to tell about it, and I’m sure this is where my lucky characterization comes from. But, at the moment, I’m finding it hard to feel the gratitude I’m supposed to be feeling. My heart is still too damaged. Or more accurately, missing. It’s in the hands of the bane of my existence, Gavin Hunter, and it’s fucking killing me all over again. It’s killing me knowing that Hannah’s probably with him—right now—giving him the love she used to give me.
Even so, despite the outcome I’ve been given, I wouldn’t change my decision to protect her. It was an instant reaction. Instinct. My only concern was for her and her safety because, as I proved, I love her more than life itself, and I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
I know she didn’t deliberately hurt me—though it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less. She loves me. She just loves him more. It’s a fact I’m not ready to forgive just yet, and I claim my right to be bitter while I have plenty of time to stew in the shitty truth, grasping onto the one small relief in my dismal immediate future: the medication fed through my drip.
Usually, the strong drugs are enough to take away the majority of my physical pain and provide me with the reprieve of induced sleep. When they work, they allow me to go to a place where my reality is hidden behind the wall of medicated bliss, and I’m surrounded by rainbows and unicorns instead of facing the fact that the broken body lying here is mine. Though today, their capacity to dull my pain just isn’t cutting it.
Every time I try to open my eyes, they feel weighted with heavy moments. Love lost. Shattered friendships. Broken bones. The past several months of my life have been so filled with “what the hells?” and “why mes?” that I’m convinced I’m stuck in a sadistic nightmare, a life not even close to my own.
I spend most of my days staring at the minimally decorated, pale blue walls of my room, peering out the large window that allows the sun’s morning glow to cast orange hues everywhere. But once noon comes around, the room’s cool hue returns to remind me of my solitude, and I wonder if my bland scenery will ever change. Once I’m overwhelmingly bored with the monotony of my four walls, I blankly stare at the footboard of my bed.
Rinse. Repeat.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” the nurse on duty announces as she briskly walks over to the cluttered mess of wires and tubes attached to my I.V. and monitors.
The incessant beeping of the alien contraptions is only mildly less annoying than the gnawing pain in my back and limbs. It continually reminds me that my heart still beats, despite its previous cease and desist. But it also emphasizes the fact that I’m here, in a hospital room, because of my blind devotion to those who don’t reciprocate it. It keeps pulsing…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…
I’m too wrapped up in my sulking to look up or even listen while she drones on, introducing herself. I just stare, unfocused, sensing her movement in the outer edges of my vision, feeling like a new man. Not one transformed for the better, but one unrecognizable from the humorous, high-on-life man I was before. That man is gone. He died along with the ex-chief of police, who’d finally lost his connection with reality. Our lives were blown to pieces that day, and I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to reassemble mine.
Maybe I don’t want to.
There’s nothing left for me in that life. It’s just a darkened stain left behind on a dirtied carpet, showing me where everything I had used to be. A constant reminder of the good before it vanished—disintegrated with the rest of the forest that surrounded the blast.
“How are you managing the pain from your skin grafts?”
The chaos in my head has turned me into an asshole, and I find myself not wanting to answer, but she pushes for a response.
“Ryan?”
“It feels like I’ve been skinned alive. So I’m feeling absolutely fantastic,” I finally reply with my usual abundance of sarcasm.
The nurse ignores my cynicism and replies, “Sadly, that’s to be expected, considering how extensive your burns were. I’ll up your medication to make you more comfortable.” She presses several buttons, and shortly after, the raw pain dulls to a manageable prickling over my skin. “Now, I have to change your dressings. I’d prefer to have you sitting up for this. To get you moving around. Are you okay if I help you?”
Her silvery voice finally draws me from my despondent stare. My weighted lids slowly rise, following the floral pattern of her scrubs to the chocolate brown gaze expecting an answer.
“Do what you have to do,” my pride answers reluctantly.
I’ve never been so helpless before. Even after the six weeks I’ve had to heal, my fractured right shoulder, broken ankle and wrist, as well as a torn rotator cuff, are still mostly unusable, and I’m left dependent on anyone who can help. I’m told everything is healing nicely, considering the damage. But nicely doesn’t mean quickly, so I’m forced to feel emasculated while I continue to mend.
She stands in front of me to brace herself against my weight. Her hands are pleasantly soft when they wrap around my good arm and guide me upright. The faint scent of lavender wafts up to my nose from her closeness. It’s calming. My head dips, and I absentmindedly look up through my lashes at her name tag.
Brianna.
Pretty name.
Letting my eyes scan over her, I see her toned arms peeking out of the short sleeves of the scrubs that dwarf her potentially athletic body. Her golden blonde hair is pulled back into a moderately sized bun on the back of her head, allowing a clear view of her slim oval face. She has prominent cheekbones, a tiny button nose, and an automatic pout on her lips when she concentrates on lifting me gently.
Even in my despondent state, I can see she’s attractive. More than attractive; she’s beautiful. Though there’s only one woman who still fills every part of me, and she’s a brunette with big grey eyes and a smile that will always bring me to my knees.
With the restricted motion of my arm, I’m very little help. Struggling against the weight of my upper half, my abs tightly contract to pull me upright. In the past six weeks of doing absolutely nothing, I’ve lost a lot of strength, and my body takes a substantial effort to lift with my stomach alone.
When I’m positioned close to the edge of my bed, she pushes aside my johnny shirt and gingerly tugs on the tape holding the bandages covering my upper back. Each piece pulls against the taut skin, prickling as they finally let go. After cleaning and applying ointments to my wounds, she applies the new barrier and smooths her fingers over the surface.
“The grafts seem to be healing quite good. In about another week or so, the skin should be fused enough that we’ll be able to start the next batch. Is there anything else I can help you with before I take you for more x-rays?”
“No,” I solemnly reply, feeling the strong effects of inadequacy.
I’ve never been a weak person. I’ve always been running on all cylinders—full of energy—always diligent with my exercise regime. I relentlessly pushed myself until I couldn’t lift another rep. Now, with the hours passing at an indescribably slow rate, I have plenty of time to dwell on my new inactive lifestyle, and it’s fucking depressing.
“If the pictures come back the way we expect, we can discuss getting you started on physical therapy with the doctor,” Brianna says as she leaves my side to walk over a black wheelchair she must’ve brought in when she first came here—when I was too stuck in my own head to notice. She returns to the edge of the bed to help guide me down. My long legs are only inches off the floor. Still, she wraps her right arm around my left one and grips it with her left, basically hugging it to get the leverage to make the tiny descent easier.
With her close proximity, I get to better enjoy the calming effects of the light lavender fragrance that surrounds her. It’s not strong enough to be a perfume, but must be the residual smell of her shampoo or body wash. The natural sedative soothes away the tormenting thoughts that seem to be ever-present, and it’s quickly becoming my new favourite scent.
Despite the small distance to the floor, the movement pulls against the taut, healing skin and puts pressure on my casted foot. Even the medication can’t stop the pain that builds, and I get a sharp reminder that it’s still there. I have to bite on my lip to stifle a groan.
I’ve been told that the therapy they want me to take is the next step in the healing process, though I’m on the fence with my enthusiasm.
I guess, in the end, all the hard work is supposed to be worth it—because the doctors say I’ll be able to get back to the life I used to have. But there’s one problem with this assurance.
That life is no longer waiting for me.
One minute and ten seconds without life. Without a heartbeat. Without breath. Without thought.
The details surrounding my passing are still a bit fuzzy, but some days, I think I can still hear the screams of fear tearing through the forest canopy, feel the burn of the billowing heat on my back, even hear the shrill cry of the machine announcing my death.
After the doctors managed to restart my heart, I spent the next four weeks in a coma, not able to breathe on my own, relying on them to keep me alive. And through it all, my family, friends, and the woman I love were there by my side, holding my hands, encouraging me to wake up. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that I finally opened my eyes, breathed air into my lungs, and asked my parents to make every single one of them leave.
I hadn’t wanted to see their pity…her guilt. Instead, I convinced my mom and dad to feed everyone the story that I was still comatose and that they needed time with me alone. It was plausible enough, and it gave me the much-needed time to escape the inevitable, uncomfortable encounter between me and the two people I wanted to leave behind the most: my ex-fiancée, and the man she chose to love instead.
After providing my body as a shield for the girl I gave my heart to—taking the brunt of an explosion with the skin on my back while watching my future escape in the arms of her last love—I’m pretty confident I’m getting smoke blown up my ass by well-meaning doctors, telling me I’m lucky to be alive. Clearly, our perceptions of “lucky” are measured on two vastly different scales. And my ability to see the glass half-full has been left back in the woods where I became a human firework.
I realize few people get to experience death and live to tell about it, and I’m sure this is where my lucky characterization comes from. But, at the moment, I’m finding it hard to feel the gratitude I’m supposed to be feeling. My heart is still too damaged. Or more accurately, missing. It’s in the hands of the bane of my existence, Gavin Hunter, and it’s fucking killing me all over again. It’s killing me knowing that Hannah’s probably with him—right now—giving him the love she used to give me.
Even so, despite the outcome I’ve been given, I wouldn’t change my decision to protect her. It was an instant reaction. Instinct. My only concern was for her and her safety because, as I proved, I love her more than life itself, and I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
I know she didn’t deliberately hurt me—though it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less. She loves me. She just loves him more. It’s a fact I’m not ready to forgive just yet, and I claim my right to be bitter while I have plenty of time to stew in the shitty truth, grasping onto the one small relief in my dismal immediate future: the medication fed through my drip.
Usually, the strong drugs are enough to take away the majority of my physical pain and provide me with the reprieve of induced sleep. When they work, they allow me to go to a place where my reality is hidden behind the wall of medicated bliss, and I’m surrounded by rainbows and unicorns instead of facing the fact that the broken body lying here is mine. Though today, their capacity to dull my pain just isn’t cutting it.
Every time I try to open my eyes, they feel weighted with heavy moments. Love lost. Shattered friendships. Broken bones. The past several months of my life have been so filled with “what the hells?” and “why mes?” that I’m convinced I’m stuck in a sadistic nightmare, a life not even close to my own.
I spend most of my days staring at the minimally decorated, pale blue walls of my room, peering out the large window that allows the sun’s morning glow to cast orange hues everywhere. But once noon comes around, the room’s cool hue returns to remind me of my solitude, and I wonder if my bland scenery will ever change. Once I’m overwhelmingly bored with the monotony of my four walls, I blankly stare at the footboard of my bed.
Rinse. Repeat.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” the nurse on duty announces as she briskly walks over to the cluttered mess of wires and tubes attached to my I.V. and monitors.
The incessant beeping of the alien contraptions is only mildly less annoying than the gnawing pain in my back and limbs. It continually reminds me that my heart still beats, despite its previous cease and desist. But it also emphasizes the fact that I’m here, in a hospital room, because of my blind devotion to those who don’t reciprocate it. It keeps pulsing…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…dumb-ass…
I’m too wrapped up in my sulking to look up or even listen while she drones on, introducing herself. I just stare, unfocused, sensing her movement in the outer edges of my vision, feeling like a new man. Not one transformed for the better, but one unrecognizable from the humorous, high-on-life man I was before. That man is gone. He died along with the ex-chief of police, who’d finally lost his connection with reality. Our lives were blown to pieces that day, and I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to reassemble mine.
Maybe I don’t want to.
There’s nothing left for me in that life. It’s just a darkened stain left behind on a dirtied carpet, showing me where everything I had used to be. A constant reminder of the good before it vanished—disintegrated with the rest of the forest that surrounded the blast.
“How are you managing the pain from your skin grafts?”
The chaos in my head has turned me into an asshole, and I find myself not wanting to answer, but she pushes for a response.
“Ryan?”
“It feels like I’ve been skinned alive. So I’m feeling absolutely fantastic,” I finally reply with my usual abundance of sarcasm.
The nurse ignores my cynicism and replies, “Sadly, that’s to be expected, considering how extensive your burns were. I’ll up your medication to make you more comfortable.” She presses several buttons, and shortly after, the raw pain dulls to a manageable prickling over my skin. “Now, I have to change your dressings. I’d prefer to have you sitting up for this. To get you moving around. Are you okay if I help you?”
Her silvery voice finally draws me from my despondent stare. My weighted lids slowly rise, following the floral pattern of her scrubs to the chocolate brown gaze expecting an answer.
“Do what you have to do,” my pride answers reluctantly.
I’ve never been so helpless before. Even after the six weeks I’ve had to heal, my fractured right shoulder, broken ankle and wrist, as well as a torn rotator cuff, are still mostly unusable, and I’m left dependent on anyone who can help. I’m told everything is healing nicely, considering the damage. But nicely doesn’t mean quickly, so I’m forced to feel emasculated while I continue to mend.
She stands in front of me to brace herself against my weight. Her hands are pleasantly soft when they wrap around my good arm and guide me upright. The faint scent of lavender wafts up to my nose from her closeness. It’s calming. My head dips, and I absentmindedly look up through my lashes at her name tag.
Brianna.
Pretty name.
Letting my eyes scan over her, I see her toned arms peeking out of the short sleeves of the scrubs that dwarf her potentially athletic body. Her golden blonde hair is pulled back into a moderately sized bun on the back of her head, allowing a clear view of her slim oval face. She has prominent cheekbones, a tiny button nose, and an automatic pout on her lips when she concentrates on lifting me gently.
Even in my despondent state, I can see she’s attractive. More than attractive; she’s beautiful. Though there’s only one woman who still fills every part of me, and she’s a brunette with big grey eyes and a smile that will always bring me to my knees.
With the restricted motion of my arm, I’m very little help. Struggling against the weight of my upper half, my abs tightly contract to pull me upright. In the past six weeks of doing absolutely nothing, I’ve lost a lot of strength, and my body takes a substantial effort to lift with my stomach alone.
When I’m positioned close to the edge of my bed, she pushes aside my johnny shirt and gingerly tugs on the tape holding the bandages covering my upper back. Each piece pulls against the taut skin, prickling as they finally let go. After cleaning and applying ointments to my wounds, she applies the new barrier and smooths her fingers over the surface.
“The grafts seem to be healing quite good. In about another week or so, the skin should be fused enough that we’ll be able to start the next batch. Is there anything else I can help you with before I take you for more x-rays?”
“No,” I solemnly reply, feeling the strong effects of inadequacy.
I’ve never been a weak person. I’ve always been running on all cylinders—full of energy—always diligent with my exercise regime. I relentlessly pushed myself until I couldn’t lift another rep. Now, with the hours passing at an indescribably slow rate, I have plenty of time to dwell on my new inactive lifestyle, and it’s fucking depressing.
“If the pictures come back the way we expect, we can discuss getting you started on physical therapy with the doctor,” Brianna says as she leaves my side to walk over a black wheelchair she must’ve brought in when she first came here—when I was too stuck in my own head to notice. She returns to the edge of the bed to help guide me down. My long legs are only inches off the floor. Still, she wraps her right arm around my left one and grips it with her left, basically hugging it to get the leverage to make the tiny descent easier.
With her close proximity, I get to better enjoy the calming effects of the light lavender fragrance that surrounds her. It’s not strong enough to be a perfume, but must be the residual smell of her shampoo or body wash. The natural sedative soothes away the tormenting thoughts that seem to be ever-present, and it’s quickly becoming my new favourite scent.
Despite the small distance to the floor, the movement pulls against the taut, healing skin and puts pressure on my casted foot. Even the medication can’t stop the pain that builds, and I get a sharp reminder that it’s still there. I have to bite on my lip to stifle a groan.
I’ve been told that the therapy they want me to take is the next step in the healing process, though I’m on the fence with my enthusiasm.
I guess, in the end, all the hard work is supposed to be worth it—because the doctors say I’ll be able to get back to the life I used to have. But there’s one problem with this assurance.
That life is no longer waiting for me.
