Bullets and Butterflies - 1. Surviving

I awake to a sun-drenched room. The stark white curtains of a disproportionately large window are drawn aside to reveal a startling blue sky beyond - brightness so painful that I'm forced to close my eyes again. For a moment I lay still, searching for a sense of clarity, a clue as to space and time and where the hell I am. My head is cotton. My limbs are dead weights. I can't decipher if I'm awake or still dreaming until memories of that night come rushing over me, like frigid waves of ocean water.

One gunshot, echoing across the ocean. One gunshot, changing everything.

With eyes now wide open, I blink once, twice, trying to balance the brightness. Glance around and realize that I'm in a hospital room. Small, white, with the smell of bleach and medicine permeating everything. Perfect sterility and suffocation.

In one corner of this diminutive room is a simple metal armchair, never meant to be comfortable, only available. There Stacey resides, all curled in it like a cat, legs mysteriously folded up beneath her. She is fast asleep with head tilted awkwardly to one side. Drool dampens the edges of her once-perfect lips. Cloaked around her like a shawl is my green fleece jacket, at least two sizes too big for her. She's drowning in it, as though it's a blanket. Her small black patent leather purse dangles from one arm, precariously close to slipping off.

I look at her for a moment, wondering how long she’s been here, wondering how long I’ve been here, and then suddenly she awakens as if she’s never really been sleeping at all but merely waiting for me to stir. Straight out of the chair she springs, tripping over her purse to come crashing against the side of my bed, moving it a fraction across the floor.

“Whoa, girl!” I exclaim, attempting to brace her with my arm but quickly discovering that it sits motionless in a sling. Immobile. Useless.

She lets out a deep sigh. Wisps of disheveled hair flutter away from her bruised and battered face with the force of her breath. The remnants of Drew’s knuckles are looking less purple now, as if the bruises are trying to heal. Her typically porcelain-smooth skin is well on the way to returning to its rightful beauty.

Soon, there will be no evidence at all that the asshole beat her.

She moves forward to sit on the edge of my bed, pushing hair from her cheeks, and says softly, “How are you feeling?”

“God-fucking-awful.” My voice sounds hoarse. My tongue feels swollen. And my head aches so ferociously that it seems weighted down, like an anvil balancing between my ears.

“I was so worried,” Stacey whispers, more to herself than to me. I notice tears forming in her eyes as she studies the sterilized windowsill. No dirt, not even a fly, resides there. With a raise of my good hand, I touch her shoulder, and she looks at me and forces the smallest of smiles, as though she's trying, as though she's making the attempt to appear happy.

“You've been unconscious for two days,” she states.

“Shit. Was it that bad?”

She eyes me curiously, dumbfounded. “You were shot, Matt, don’t you remember?”

Yes, I remember. The echo of the gunshot resonates in my ears as if the bullet is ricocheting throughout the room at this very moment. “Of course I remember.” As I lay there, incapable of movement along my entire upper left torso, I imagine that the bullet must have succeeded in doing some pretty significant damage.

“Where did it hit?” I ask.

Stacey points to my left shoulder, just over my heart, and says, “You wouldn't believe how close it came, Matt.”

But I do believe it.

That fucking bastard was aiming to end me.

With my good hand I touch the bandaged area that covers my left shoulder and the majority of my upper chest. Because of the heavy dressing, I can’t see or feel the wound, which frustrates me. I attempt to flex my left arm but it's as stiff as a board - I can’t even move my fingers. Alarming. I show no signs of panic in front of Stacy, yet I can’t help but wonder just how extensive the damage really is.

The door opens and a nurse steps in. She smiles kindly and moves forward. "Good morning, Mr. Donovan." She immediately goes to work, checking my IV, checking my dressing, checking my pulse, checking my blood pressure. "How are you feeling today?" Her southern accent is sweet, buttery.

"All right. I think. A little groggy." My tongue feels ten times too large for my mouth.

She nods and peels back a small section of my dressing to examine the wound below. I can’t see much, just a lot of bruising. Then she unhooks the sling and with a finger taps me all up and down my left arm. "Can you feel that?" she inquires.

I shake my head.

She squeezes my fingers, one by one. "How about that?"

Again, I shake my head. "No. Nothing."

She graciously smiles and squeezes my hand amiably. "That's to be expected. Just some nerve damage. Nothing to worry about. Would you like something to eat?"

Her nonchalance about my arm is unconvincing, but at the moment I don't feel like pressing the subject further. "Some water," I request.

"Of course." She picks up an empty pitcher and steps into the bathroom to fill it up. Stacey stares at me in alarm, her green eyes wide.

"I'm all right," I assure her.

But she looks no more convinced than I feel.

The nurse returns, pours me a cup of water with a straw in it and lifts the head of the bed so that I can sit up a little. The movement causes me great pain, and I wince. The nurse mumbles an apology, checks my IV once more, and then exits the room.

Stacey immediately returns to the edge of the bed and grabs my deadened hand. "Oh, Matt, I'm so sorry about all of this. None of this would have happened if I -- "

I quickly silence her by saying, "This wasn't your fault, Stacey. Just an ugly circumstance. And I'm fine. All right?"

She nods, but pain is evident in her eyes.

The door opens again, and this time Jake steps into the room. His appearance is disheveled, eyes bloodshot, jawline covered in stubble. He's dressed in a baggy pair of blue jeans with a gray flannel shirt that's tucked out, his hiking boots unlaced. It's obvious he hasn't slept in awhile.

Upon seeing me, he sighs and shuffles over to the bed.

"You look like hell," I say, smiling, holding out my open palm to receive our customary hand slap, but instead of hitting my hand, he grabs a hold of it and presses it firmly between his palms, almost crushing it. He doesn't let go, just holds tightly and stares down at me with stark intensity, lost in his own thoughts, no words spoken. There is an unmistakable stench of liquor on him.

"You okay?" I ask curiously, wondering what's going on in his fragile mind as he crushes the bones in my hand.

He looks at me oddly for a moment, head tilted to one side, mouth open as if to speak. Then suddenly he notices Stacey, as if for the first time. She says hello and he immediately releases my hand, as though struck by fire. He coughs, appears to almost spit, wipes his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve. “Guess I haven’t been sleeping,” he mumbles.

"Not worried about me, I hope," I say, chiding him.

He forces a crooked smile and returns to the Jake I know. "Why the fuck would I worry about you?"

Pulling up a chair, he lands in it, and the three of us talk for awhile, shooting the shit, discussing nothing in particular. For whatever reason, the subject of Drew and the gun and the violence is avoided. After a while, Stacey informs us that she has to leave. She's reluctant to go, but I assure her that it's all right. She bends over to kiss me on the cheek, strokes my hair with her fingers, whispers, "I'll be back soon."

After she's gone, Jake immediately digs in his pocket for a cigarette. The fact that the hospital is non-smoking seems irrelevant to him. He sits back in his chair, legs spread, eyes staring at the ceiling, smoke curling up above him. He doesn't say anything for awhile, just sucks on the cigarette, and when he finally does speak, his voice is thin, strained. "They've got that shithead locked up."

"Good."

He peers over at me, blowing smoke, and says, "I wish I'd killed him." His voice is pure hatred. A muscle in his jaw twitches, signifying his rage. He's just about as angry as I've ever seen him.

"Don't wish for that,” I say. “They’d lock you up as well, and then I'd have to come visit you and smuggle in razor blades and shit."

Jake forces a smile. "Always the joker, Donovan." His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands and moves to the window. He remains quiet for a moment, watching something far off in the distance, puffing on his cigarette. Then he gravely turns to me and says, "You were in surgery for ten hours. Tough time getting that bullet out, I guess. You were bleeding all over the place when I brought you in. Didn't think you were going to make it."

His words strike a chord in me. A flash of moonlight, the echo of a gunshot, my body hitting the ground. "Well,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can muster, “I'm here now, eh? Everything's fine."

"Glad for that," he mumbles."'Cause if you'd have died, I would have found a way to kill that motherfucker, no doubt about it."

I awake from a deep sleep later in the day, groggy and sore, and discover that my parents are in the room with me, standing near the bed. My mother is puffy-eyed and worried. My father stands to the side of her, hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat, eyes averted. He's rigid and tight-lipped, as if desperately trying not to let his emotions show. My mother leans over and strokes my hair, repeating over and over again how worried they've both been.

"I'm fine," I assure her, my voice betraying my words. Despite a steady flow of morphine, the ache in my upper chest is vivid.

"Is there anything we can get you?" she asks. "Anything you need?"

I shake my head.

"How about something to eat?" she asks. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No. No appetite.” Then, at the sight of her distress, I touch her arm and say, “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

But she's still discontent and begins to fidget about the room, straightening this and fussing over that. She takes the water pitcher to refill it in the bathroom. Meanwhile my father stands rigid, like stone.

"Why don't you sit?" I suggest.

He looks at me as if noticing me for the first time. "Wh-what was that, son?"

But before I can reply, the door swings open and Jake enters, as unkempt and drunk as ever, clutching a paper bag clearly disguising a bottle.

My mother looks at him, water pitcher in hand, and cringes at the sight.

“Mrs. Donovan!” he exclaims, holding out his arms as if to receive a hug.

But my mother doesn't embrace him, doesn't even acknowledge him. She pours me a fresh cup of water, fluffs up my pillows, whispers something to herself, strokes my hair again. I hear my father speaking to Jake, and then my mother grabs Dad by the arm and propels him to the door.

"We'll go get you something to eat," she states, ignoring my protests, disappearing through the door as if she can’t wait to leave.

I sigh and lay back against the pillows.

Jake perches atop the bed beside me, reeking of alcohol, and produces the whiskey bottle from the paper bag. He unscrews the top and offers it me and I wave it away, sickened by the mere thought of it.

He shrugs. Says, “Don’t know what you’re missing,” and gulps down a sizeable amount. I wonder how much he's had prior to starting this bottle.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the bottle on the bedside table. He looks at me for a long moment, an intense heat suddenly sparking off of him like an electric current, and then he leans forward and without further thought crushes his lips to mine, teeth grinding against teeth, whiskey pervading everything. I try to turn my head away, but he grabs me by the chin and forces me to face him. Rage, desire and an inner turmoil that I have never seen in him before emanate from him like a twisted storm. He cups my face in his hands, kisses me again, hard and violent.

Because my left hand is out of commission, I do the only thing that I can do with my right: grab him by the ear and yank his head away. He curses and pulls at my hand until my fingers bend backwards, and as I arch up in reaction, a sharp pain slices through my chest like a knife's been wielded. I wince and fall back against the pillows, momentarily paralyzed.

Jake is too intoxicated to realize that I'm in pain. He mumbles something about “I gotta prove it to you,” and sticks his hand inside the sheets, searching for me. When he grabs my crotch I say, “Stop it, Jake,” and muster all of my strength to pull his hand away.

Tears fall down his stubbled face. “I thought I fucking lost you,” he sputters. “I thought you were fucking dead. You were bleeding all over the goddamn place, all over me... Didn't know what to think. Been up for two days, drinking and worrying and wondering what the fuck I would do if you died.” His words trail off as sobs take over, racking his body, and I just lay there, looking at him, stunned.

Finally, he takes a long, labored breath and wipes his nose with the back of his shirt sleeve and tries to compose himself. “I guess you don’t fucking care,” he mumbles. “You got Charlie."

The words choke me. I stare at him, thunderstruck. He notices this and quickly says, "What - you think I don’t know about that? How fucking stupid do you think I am?" He looks at me as if expecting an answer, and when I say nothing, he continues. "I went by the beach house one night and noticed smoke coming out of the chimney. Thought maybe you were in there fucking some chick." He pauses. "But you were fucking Charlie instead." He shakes his head, wipes his nose again. "I sat outside for awhile, waited for you to leave. Considered kicking your faggot ass. Decided just to disappear for awhile."

"That's why you took the swordfishing gig..." I state, suddenly understanding more than I have understood for quite some time.

Jake nods, takes the bottle of whiskey and helps himself to another swig. Belches. Stands up. Begins to pace the room. "Had a lot of time to think about things on that godforsaken boat. Realized that I didn't hate you. Got a little jealous even. I mean - hey - what's Charlie got that I haven't got?" He spreads his arms out, gesturing for me to notice him, which I do because you can't not notice Jake. Even in his drunken, unbathed stupor he's attractive.

He takes another swig of the whiskey, screws the top back on and sets it down. "I hope you know that this is all your fucking fault." He looks at me long and hard. I sense anger rising in him again. He breathes heavily, runs a hand through his hair. "If I didn't hate that swordfishing boat so goddamn much I would have taken another tour. I would have stayed away longer."

"I'm sorry," I mumble, unable to think of anything better to say.

"Fuck that!" he spits, pointing a finger at me. "Fuck that, and fuck you! Playing your stupid games, forcing me to realize something about myself that I never knew existed. I'm no fucking queer!"

The door opens at that exact moment - in the worst timing ever - and Stacey peeks in, wary. She's heard something, that much is obvious by the look on her face. When she glances at Jake he yells, “Fuck are you looking at?” Pushes her aside so that he can leave the room. I hear his heavy boots hitting the tile as he races down the corridor.