Everything hurts…

When you come round, everything hurts.

There’s a drip stuck back in your arm – no surprise – but your abdomen is on fire. It’s mostly concentrated to the side, and immediate fantasies of plunging your entire body into a freezing cold bath overtake everything else.

Gradually, the pain stabilises enough for you to open your eyes. It’s not that it fades, exactly – just that you get used to the rhythm of it, the way it flares every time you take a breath, the way even swallowing sends a burning ripple of pain down your throat that culminates in a roundhouse kick to the stomach.

The room is deathly quiet, apart from the machines, and it’s a long time before you become aware of someone else breathing in the room.

‘I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’re a lucky son of a bitch.’

You don’t move; you can’t. You barely blink, because the pain seems to plateau when you’re completely still. A blotchy shadow comes into view, approaching your bed.

‘That bullet missed your spine and it missed your major arteries. Which is why you’re not currently dead. If you were a woman, you probably would be, so thank God for your lack of ovaries if you’re in a thanking kind of mood. But I bet it hurts like hell, so I wouldn’t be.’

Alan.

Even thinking is a strain; it’s as much as you can do to struggle through each moment without wanting to throw up. But you recognise the voice, and a few memories come leaking back, unbidden.

‘The bullet ruptured your spleen on its way out. But believe it or not, that’s lucky, because you don’t need a spleen to survive.’ Alan’s voice is clinical, emotionless. ‘Bleeds like hell and hurts like a motherfucker, but you can get by without one. Your liver should already be taking over for it, which is fortunate, because your old spleen is currently sitting in a jar on Doctor Hamada’s shelf.’

You wince at that – you can’t help it – and a lancing burst of pain sends sparks showering behind your eyelids. You grunt, unable to make any more of a sound, and Alan’s voice drops fractionally.

‘Sorry. The important thing is that you’re going to be okay. Missing an organ, but okay. Now I need you to listen to me very carefully.’