Page 17 of Scars of Silk

Voices murmur in the background. Well, that’s just even bloody better; there’s an audience for my pain.

“Oh, Danny boy, you'd better open your eyes right about now.”

I groan—at least I try to. Abi.

Opening my eyes, I peer through what seems to be thick smoke. Abi doesn’t smoke. I blink a few times, but everything remains blurred and my eyelids can’t unstick themselves for long. A tang of metal tingles the end of my tongue.

For one brief but endless moment I wait for my dad to speak, like the time I had my tonsils out and I could hear him before I could see him.

“He’s coming around,” says another voice, this one crisper, sharper, the vowels more pronounced.

It’s not Dad.

He’s dead. The fact he’s dead rings in my head—a bell I wish would stop ringing.

Gone somewhere apparently I can’t follow. As I work on opening my eyes, I try to place the voice.

Maybe I am dead and this is hell? It hurts enough to be hell.

Somehow, I open my eyes enough so that bright light harpoons my eyeballs. I expect the zap of luminance to be followed by the cloying stench of a sterile hospital bay but it doesn’t come.

Instead, I find four faces peering at me. No wait, two. Oh, maybe four. My head thuds the more I try to count.

“Bloody hell, Dan.” Even through my blurred vision, I can see that Abi does not look like she’s willing to adopt the role of Florence Nightingale again so soon. “What shit is this? Do you have a death wish?”

“Lay off, Abi.” My jaw isn’t working properly, my words slur like I’ve seen the bottom of a bottle of rum.

“Lay off? Are you fricking kidding me? A week ago, you nearly killed yourself. Now this? Forgive me for being alarmed and oh so very much not amused.”

I try to wave her and her nagging away. “It was just a fight.”

“Where, Dan? Where was this fight? On a street corner? In an alley? Should I be calling the police?”

I try to shrug, but it’s just impossible. My body feels like a metal suspension bridge brought down by a hurricane and smashed to pieces.

“Just a fight.” I shut my eyes again. My words bring on a battering ram of memories which assault my incoherent thoughts: spitting blood, endless pain, and a wonderful pulse of euphoria.

“I give up,” Abi snaps. I don’t say anything. If she gave up on me, it would be better. I wouldn’t have to keep going to her house to apologise for being an arsehole. I wouldn’t be hanging around, a useless waste of space example for her children to watch as they grow up.

Maybe it would be better for us all if everyone gave up on me.

“Fine.” I mutter.

There’s a broad stretch of silence. “You know, one day, hopefully soon, you will pull your head out of your arse. When you do, don’t come knocking on my door.” There’s another weighted pause followed by a small but unmistakable sniff.

I’m an arsehole.

It would be so much better if she left me to it.

The familiar catch of the front door echoes in between my ears like a shot gun. Now all I need is to lay still and just wait for the incessant pain to stop.

Not even bothering to move or to get up to investigate my injuries, I submit myself to the exhaustion rolling over me. The fight was too soon, I know that. In which case next Friday’s might do the trick.

There’s something to look forward to. A silver lining and all that.

“You know, underground fighting is illegal.”

What the fuck?! If my broken body didn’t have me pinned to the bed, I’d be jumping out of my skin. My eyes blink open, focusing on the shadowy form moving in front of me.