Page 66 of All I Have Left

Physical therapy? Maybe she mentioned that and I’d forgotten. It’s a possibility. I forgot my birthday the other day. It was Tuesday and even if you would have told me the date, I wouldn’t have remembered it.

I’ve been in this hospital for five weeks now, and every day blurs into the next, like the ocean ebbing and flowing.

I think about her in physical therapy again. For her hand, I assume. She’d broken it. The idea that she’d suffered injuries too gnaws at me and my mood worsens. Aggression works through me and Leigha notices.

“Here, do you want me to call her? I can.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “I look that desperate?”

She touches my shoulder, reaching for her cell phone in her pocket. “Honey, I’ve spent nearly every day with you for the last month. I’m beginning to understand your eye movements at this point,” she teases.

Just as she swipes her finger across the screen, Evie walks in.

Relief floods through me in an instant. Her hair’s pulled up in a bun, her neck revealed and then my emotions take on another focus.

Sex. It’s on my brain daily. I fight through so many urges, most of which involve me being an asshole to most everyone, but this one, the desire to hold Evie, kiss her, fuck her… that one is uncontrollable at times.

I lied to her. I do remember what happened. I remember every fucking detail up until Shane approached me with the bat. I don’t remember the hit, or what lead to it, but one of my last visions is of him raping her.

I’m not proud of where my thoughts surface from, but I want to erase that vision and replace it of one with me and her.

I’ve talked to the physiatrist who insists I see him about this a few times.

I worry about why I’m so obsessed with wanting to have sex with her.

You’d think it wouldn’t be that way. That I wouldn’t want to after seeing that horrifying situation play out and what he did to her.

He tells me that it’s normal to want to give her back the control that was taken from her and replace it with a good memory. I’m not entirely sure I’d agree with him. I think it’s more related to the fact that I can’t stand that he was the last to touch her. That’s what I want to take back.

As fucking disturbing and disgusting as that is.

Evie moves into the room, a Starbucks cup in one hand, her bag in the other and a cute smile tugging at her lips. “Your bandage is off,” she says, looking at my head .

Right. Forgot about that. Leigha removed it this morning. I run my hand over my head but stop short of the stitches. My hair’s beginning to grow, a thick coarse stubble. “Yeah,” I mumble, my heart flipping around uncontrollably in my chest.

Reaching my hand, Evie holds it. “I love it. Looks as gnarly as your attitude lately.”

I snort again. She’s always finding ways to try to make the best of the situation. While I appreciate it, I don’t reply.

Leigha excuses herself and we’re left alone, the room dimly lit and quiet, other than monitors I’m still connected to.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks, setting her cup down on the tray next to my bed.

I shrug. “Okay. You?”

“Actually pretty good. It was nice to get that stupid cast off.”

My eyes drop to her hand and I notice she’s no longer wearing the hard cast but a splint. “I bet.”

Our conversations fade away as my eyes move to her body again. I shift in the bed, breathing heavy.

“Are you in pain?”

I shake my head. “More like in frustration.”

“I can’t imagine. It has to be hard to stay in this bed so much.”

I want to laugh that she thinks I’m referring to being in this bed.

And while I suppose in way it has a little to do with that, it’s more about wanting to pick her up and make her straddle me on the bed.

I’d take that stupid pink tank top she’s wearing off and reveal her breasts I dream about in my mouth.

Fuck. Arching in the bed, I shift again, my body stiff and exhausted.

And there lies the problem with everything I want to do.

I can’t. I can’t pick her up. I can’t kiss her the way I want because just tilting my head sometimes leads to a blinding headache.

And forget about holding her. My chest and stomach hurt so goddamn bad that even simple heavy breaths can send a pain through my entire body so sharp I break out in a sweat .

So while I want to laugh, I don’t even have the energy for that anymore.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “I brought a muffin for you. Banana chocolate chip. Your favorite.”

I look at the muffin, then her face. Her devastatingly beautiful face, free of makeup and finally, bruises. “I’m not hungry for food,” I tell her, my eyes drifting south.

At first, she doesn’t pick up on what I mean. And then she does and a giggle leaves her lips. The sound rings through the room and the corners of my mouth twitch into a half smile. She leans in and kisses my cheek.

Her simple touch, the scent of her shampoo, sends a rush through my entire body, both intense and overwhelming.

Even a touch from her can be exhausting.

I’m not sure why, but they tell me it has to do with sensory overload and it’s normal.

For me, it’s frustrating and only leads to even more infuriating agitation.

I want so many things, yet I’m trapped inside my own body, screaming for something to give.