Chum

The shrill blare of the siren slices through my muddled thoughts, a jarring rattle in the haze that clouds my mind. It’s a sound that both comforts and unsettles me – comforting that I’m still alive to hear it, unsettling because I have to deal with this pain. Each wail of the siren echoes my frantic heartbeats, even as they pull me further and further from the abandoned factory’s choking shadows.

Soon, that siren’s scream fades, giving way to a new series of noises, although I can’t tell if the siren has stopped or if there are simply other things overriding it. The rhythmic beeping of machines steadily punctuates the air around me. It’s a staccato, robotic melody, keeping track of my heartbeat even when I can’t feel it myself. Or maybe I feel it too much, every throb of the muscle in my chest squeezing more blood out of my face. I feel coldness, a sensation that I assume is my face being cleaned up. A sharp sting. Misery.

The motion of the ambulance, its suspension not quite up to the challenge of well-potholed Philadelphia streets, jostles me back and forth. Each jolt, each bump in the road, threatens to wake me up from this semi-conscious state, but never quite reaches deep enough in my skull to do so. My vision, bleary and unreliable, flits between moments of clarity and stretches of obscurity. The sharp, clinical lights of the ambulance are a stark contrast to the dim gloom of the warehouse – an aggressive luminescence blinding me, as my neck refuses to move in any direction other than the one that keeps me facing straight up.

Amidst the confusion, memories of the fight flood back. They play out in my mind’s eye like a film reel with scenes out of order — fractured, fragmented bursts of adrenaline and roaring. Every punch, every shout, every drop of blood, they all compete for my attention, snippets of an unfinished combat. I open my mouth to breathe, because using my nose sends a shrieking, piercing fire through my facial muscles and sinuses.

The pain still claws at me, an unyielding beast with relentless jaws. It’s constant, but its sharp edges seem smoothed by the hazy cloud of semi-consciousness that envelops my thoughts. It’s almost as if I’m viewing my agony from a distance, an out-of-body experience that leaves me for a moment questioning if I’ve died or not. The rush of battle, the heady adrenaline that propelled me through the worst of the confrontation, is retreating, leaving behind residue, an aftertaste that’s both sharp and sweet. This flavor mingles bizarrely with the raw, unmistakable metallicness of blood, which still coats my lips and trickles down my throat.

Shapes drift in and out of my vision like ghostly apparitions. They’re indistinct, softened by my unfocused gaze, and though I strain to make them out, they evade clear identification. Voices, too, ebb and flow around me — some are muffled reassurances, others perhaps more clinical observations. However, the actual words, the nuances, remain frustratingly out of reach, swallowed by the fog that dominates my thoughts.

On one hand, I feel almost ethereal, as if I might float away from this chaos at any moment. But then there’s a counter pull, a leaden weight that pins me down, reminding me of the gravity of my injuries and the reality of my situation. This sensation is only accentuated by the stretcher beneath me, which, while cold and unyielding, seems to be doing its best to offer some comfort to my battered body.

Every so often, through the dappled haze that is my vision, a face emerges from the fog – a beacon amidst the fragmented chaos. Jordan’s black hair hangs disheveled and loose, helmet on but cloth mask removed, casting a stark contrast against their eerily pale, blood-stained skin. The soft glow of the ambulance lights makes the sheen of sweat on their brow glisten, emphasizing the deep grooves of worry that crease their face.

I can tell they’re leaning in close, trying to speak, trying to reassure me, but everything is muffled now. I can’t tell if I’ve been given painkillers yet, but voices and sounds are indistinct regardless, and I crave anasthesia like a runner craving water after a marathon. Their face vanishes from view, and I’m back to staring at the ceiling of the ambulance.

Their words, though meant to soothe, reach me as if they’re being filtered through water, distorted and distant. Each syllable struggles to find its way to me, fighting against the growing din of my own thumping heartbeat and the machinery that surrounds us. “Stay with us, Sam,” their voice strains to cut through the fog of pain and semi-consciousness. The EMTs say something else, but the words fail to register. My brain simply does not pick them up.

In my weakened state, I endeavor to answer their plea, to provide some semblance of reassurance. My lips quiver, trying to mold words from the air, a desperate attempt to connect with Jordan, to tell them I’m still here. But it’s like trying to communicate from beneath layers of thick, soundproof glass, or gallons of seawater. Every syllable feels like a Herculean effort, as if I’m drawing each breath from a rapidly depleting reservoir. My exhales manifest as weary sighs, while each inhale becomes a battle against the weight pressing down on me. No words emerge from the dark.

In the muddled haze that is my current state, fragments of memories course through me like half-recalled dreams after a bad sleep – nightmares, really. At the forefront is the lingering thought of my parents, a constant presence even in my weakened consciousness. The tender recollection of my mother’s keen, discerning eyes — always able to see through any of my ruses — comes to mind. She would be waiting, worry lines etched deep, urging me to find my way back. In stark contrast, the image of my father’s brow, perpetually furrowed with concerns of the world and the weight of fatherhood, makes its presence known. He, with his stoic exterior, might not vocalize his worries, but his anxiety would show in the tightness of his jaw and the subtle pacing of his feet.

The thought of them, the pain and anguish they would be undergoing, is nearly as crushing as my injuries. I can only repeat to myself, in my head, the sole clear sentence I had before passing out – “Fuck, my parents are going to be so mad.”

The rhythmic hum of the ambulance, the world outside its windows flashing by, is suddenly broken by a jarring jolt. The vehicle has hit something – another pothole, probably. The sharp discomfort yanks me back to the harsh reality, momentarily breaking the introspective trance. The sudden pain, searing and immediate, breaks through the duller pain that had been with me with each breath. As the sharp sting subsides, the all-encompassing grip of semi-consciousness, so much like quicksand, pulls at me once more.

I wage a silent battle, mustering every ounce of willpower to remain tethered to reality.

But like a phone with a dying battery, my consciousness fades, and I drift into the void.

As consciousness edges back in, the first thing I notice is the sharp sting of fluorescent lights. Each one seems like a tiny sun, demanding my attention as it pushes through the hazy veil of my mind. I try to piece together how I got here. The rough, almost dizzying ride in the ambulance is a vague memory, replaced by the stillness of this room. Everything around me is so… clean. It’s like someone took the world and scrubbed it till it gleamed. There’s a smell too, sharp and sterile, like how I imagine the inside of a bleach bottle would be.

Every beat of my heart is a reminder of the pain. It’s everywhere, a constant, throbbing reminder of what just happened. Like the background noise of a TV, it’s always there, just beneath everything I try to focus on.

I muster the strength to blink, feeling like I’m lifting a set of heavy curtains rather than just eyelids. They’re sticky, probably from the dried blood and all the exhaustion weighing them down. Beneath me, the hospital bed feels weird. It’s too pristine, too white, and the pillows are all stiff and strange, not like the ones at home. My body feels out of place here, a jagged jigsaw puzzle piece on a smooth board, mixed in from the wrong set.

Every now and then, there’s a gentle touch. Sometimes it’s just a hand, checking my arm or adjusting something I can’t see. Other times, there’s this cold thing – probably a stethoscope – pressing briefly against my chest. It’s comforting, a reminder that people are looking out for me, but with my eyes shut, all I can experience the world through is touch, and the smell of blood in my proximity, the people in adjacent rooms. Dying. Bleeding. Like me.

Around me, the room is alive with soft sounds. The click of some machine, footsteps that squeak just a little, and the rustle of curtains moving. I feel a sharp sting in my arm, and everything quickly fades into a fluffy, fuzzy oblivion that leaves me, finally, a little breathing room to relax. I feel my muscles un-tensing. I can feel the back of my throat flapping quietly with each breath as I snore on blood.

The words spoken around me seem like they’re coming from some distant planet. They’re soft, blurry, like the hum of bees, or the far-off rumble of traffic. For a moment, I think of those movies where the main character is underwater, and all the voices are muted and slow. I don’t get most of what’s being said – it sounds like a mix of hospital talk and deep concern. There’s the odd word or phrase that breaks through the fog. Words like “multiple contusions” and “lacerations.” And then, more words that sound scarier, like “fractures” and “possible internal injuries.”

All of it just seems like a list, a really, really bad list of everything that’s wrong with me after tonight’s unmitigated disaster.

The moments of clarity are short and fleeting, like brief breaks in a storm. I’m not really sure what’s going on, and then suddenly I am, and then suddenly I’m not again. It’s like when you’re floating in a pool and let the water pull you down, only to kick back up to the surface for a quick breath before being tugged back down again. This constant back and forth is exhausting, and if I wasn’t sedated, I just know that I would be panicking right now. The chemical comfort keeps me from drawing too many comparisons to my time shoved underneath a boat, but it still lingers, like a quiet predator in the edge of my vision, threatening to push me into an anxiety attack.

I’m sure I’m hearing the shuffle of shoes, the whisper of fabric. I imagine a group of doctors and nurses, probably looking very serious, gathered around discussing… me. Their faces are probably all scrunched up in that worried, puzzled way adults get when they’re trying to figure something out. It feels good, to be cared for, to be talked about. I know my parents are concerned about me, but for some reason, the thought that I’m important to these people, even if just as a job, makes me feel fluffy inside.

There’s a deep voice that breaks through, a voice that sounds like it’s used to being listened to. “What’s the status?” he asks, and I can’t help but picture some stern-faced doctor, like in those medical TV shows that my mom likes to watch.

The gentle buzz of conversation around me draws my focus, pulling me from the comfortable cocoon of fog that my mind has wrapped itself in. Another voice, soft and nurturing, maybe belonging to a nurse, floats to the surface of my awareness. “She’s showing an unusual pattern of recovery.” For a moment, everything falls silent, or maybe the world just pauses, waiting for the next word. In that space, my mind struggles to grasp the significance of what she’s saying. Then she continues, a hint of incredulity coloring her tone. “Her fractures are… consolidating. Rapidly.”

I try to puzzle out what it could possibly mean. I know I’m smart, and I know that I know a lot of big words, but right now everything but the simplest things are escaping me. I don’t know what consolidating means right now. I barely understand what a fracture means. Will I even remember this when I wake up? “Does she have a LUMA with her?” the deepest voice asks, and if I wasn’t sedated, I’d be kicking myself for forgetting it at home. I didn’t bring my cell phone out of juvenile paranoia that I’d be tracked somehow, but forgot that I kept my license in my phone case. The reply doesn’t register, only the sound of speech without the meaning.

Before I can sink further into my musings, another voice breaks through. It’s higher-pitched, tinged with a disbelief that makes it stand out. “There are pointed bone shards growing from her injuries. Not bone spurs, these are bigger, about the size…” it starts, and I try and fail to hold on to the rest of the sentence. “…fully formed structures. They appear to be…” they continue, and I lose the tail end of it.

And then the commanding voice, the one that seemed to be steering this ship of voices, brings a finality to the conversation. “They’ll have to be extracted,” he states, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Immediately. Before they cause more damage or impede her recovery.”

Someone shadows the light overhead, their form cutting through the brightness like an unexpected eclipse. I can feel them even with my eyes closed, the way they move, displacing the sterile room’s ambiance. I hear the telltale sounds of instruments being arranged, their soft clinks giving away the impending procedure. Then, a soothing touch brushes my forehead, making me aware of the sudden lack of my mask, something I had grown used to as a second skin.

A pang of mortification runs through me. Someone’s peeling off my costume, which is so drenched in sweat and blood it feels glued to me. I imagine it must be like stripping the old skin off a molting snake, struggling to break free of its shed. In my mind, it’s just one more thing that isn’t going right today. My secret identity, that layer of security, is being removed piece by piece, just like my costume. I know logically it’s probably what they have to do to operate on me, but I feel vulnerable beyond vulnerability. Only once I feel the gentle fluttering of a hospital gown placed over me does my brain calm itself down, so stuck to modesty even when I’m… what, am I dying?

A voice, soft but insistent, cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Stay with us, okay?” The kindness in that voice is startling, especially when I think about what they’re about to do. “You’re doing great. We’re here to help.” The promise in those words, the warmth in that tone, anchors me a bit, giving me an island to hang onto amidst the thunderstorm.

The moment I sense the first touch on my body, everything speeds up. There’s a mad rush of people around me, an urgency in their movements. The coolness of what I assume are antiseptics hits first, painlessly sharp on my torn skin and gunshot wounds. I’d wince if I weren’t sedated. Then comes a pressure, a dull sort of probing. I figure those are tools, but I can’t really tell. They’re touching me everywhere: my torso, my busted face and nose, and even near my throat, along my limbs, anywhere there’s an injury. It’s like being caught in a storm, aware of the raindrops but unable to count them. Once someone retracts their hands, I stop being able to keep track of them. To me, every poke is a new doctor.

I wish I could say I was brave, that I watched them fix me with a steely resolve, but honestly? I’m sure if my eyes were open at all, they would be staring, blank and glassy, at the ceiling. It hits me then, in a moment of dull clarity: they’re operating on me. I’ve watched enough television to know what that means. There’s cutting, blood, metal, tools, and then the painstaking process of stitching everything back together. They’re probably talking in those calm, professional tones, discussing the best way to patch me up while I’m laid out like a puzzle on the table. I wonder if they’re listening to music, what they’re listening to. Are they worried about me?

A different kind of darkness begins to tug at me. Not just the exhaustion and the blocked-out pain, but a chemical embrace that there is no resistance to. My ability to hang on this far into sedation might impress someone, but it can only take me so far. Something in my blood asks me to escape into a place where there are no questions, no fears. I decide that it’s probably a good idea.