Dull.
That's what it had become, dull. A morphine-soaked haze dripping its grey scarlet remains into his consciousness when the sedatives dropped to a dangerously low level, or when he'd had too much sleep even for his wrecked body. And threading one or the other made little difference.
His waking world was filled with controls and a dull pain that threatened to drown everything else out with every dip of the anesthetics, till someone entered and changed his IVs again - and then came the sickly sweetness of oblivion, spinning in dreams high as a fucking kite.
He hated it.
But he was alive, so what right did he have to complain?
Whatever was counting out his heartbeat and marking every twitch of the tired muscle within his chest with a beep sustained its regular rhythm, testament to one stubborn son of a bitch that refused to bite a dust even two limbs short and full of tubes and hardware.
It was a miracle, someone said.
No, it's not a miracle, Galahad would've told them if there hadn't been something still stuck in his throat and allowing him to breathe, just a hard-headed old bastard and the wonders of modern medicine.
But he didn't.
It didn't matter.
It had been two weeks now, hadn't it?
Two weeks. During one of those more wakeful times, he'd gathered enough strength to tilt his head sideways and look at Loa's softly rising and falling chest, the green of life controls blinking with what was now familiarity. The pale white of a pillowcase rubbed against his less damaged cheek with a soft rustle.
And that reminded him, someone'd promised to help him shave. Ah, how pitiful it was, to ask another man for such a courtesy, and in a bed no less - but he wasn't being given a choice, not in this matter or any other at the time. All he could do was frown and glance at the blank screen of the TV with shards of quiet contemplation skimming past the surface of his thoughts.
No, now wasn't the time for that. He doubted that he could keep his eye open for long even if he decided to turn it on.
It was hard--
To breathe, to stay awake. Merely exist, counting down the myriads of seconds.
The real miracle was that he persisted without going mad.
Or did he?
Apollo, was that his name?
He wondered whether he'd already seen the man, or if it was simply a name that had slipped him by among the masses of doctors and nurses, barely seen face flitting past as his memory blurred their features, sinking deeper into the pit every day. He'd see it when he comes, and the bit of curiosity was one of the few things that helped him stay awake and wonder.
Moving was out of the question. Broken like a plastic soldier ran over by a lawnmower, it wasn't an option in the first place.
A few more weeks--
Maddening. I want to go out.
He couldn't even keep his thoughts still, the torrents always swept him one way or another. A deep exhale had him regretting it seconds later when his broken ribs reminded him of the current situation.
Till at last, the door opened.
Yes, at least he'd get rid of the annoying stubble. Why didn't Blu let him know he was getting prickly already?