Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I will never forgive myself.
Chapter 29
I’ve had so much blood pumped into me, I don’t even think I’m me any more. I had internal bleeding caused by a splintered rib that nicked a blood vessel. The mass of blood behind my ribs was excruciatingly painful, but once it started to disperse, the pain lessened over the weeks until regular paracetamol sufficed and I could lose my drip. My left arm is broken in three places and three tendons were severed above my wrist. I have a tidy gouge in my thigh, and I’m all kinds of black and blue from scrapes, cuts and grazes. Quite honestly, I look a royal mess, even six weeks later.
Yet I’d endure this pain forever and happily look like this for the rest of my life if I could change just one thing.
But I can’t. My only comfort is that our baby didn’t suffer like we have.
Stephanie was charged with attempted murder. I didn’t know, but a few neighbours up the street have CCTV cameras installed at the front of their properties, and after careful analysis, apparently her intent became clear. The footage of her coming at me with a knife only moments before cemented it for the police.
I chose not to see that footage, but Jack did. I don’t know why he needed to, and I didn’t ask. They also did tests on the car; the speed on impact was estimated to be around 50 mph. I shouldn’t even be alive. Stephanie’s been put on suicide watch while on remand, and her lawyer has appealed for mental assessments. I’ve heard she’s claiming diminished responsibility. I’m hoping that means she’ll be certified mad and shipped off to a mental institute. I don’t care where they take her, just as long as it’s far, far away from me and Jack.
After my parents got over the shock of the accident, my father ripped into Jack with an anger I’ve never seen before. Jack bowed to his fury, putting up no fight and not retaliating with any kind of excuses. The guilt that consumes him worries me more each day. He’s here, but he’s not here. He smiles, but behind the smiles there’s a perpetual sadness. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. No one was supposed to suffer this much.
My friends and parents have been in and out of my flat checking up on me, but their help hasn’t been needed. Jack’s taken compassionate leave from work to be with me, to wait on me hand and foot and fuss over my healing body. I can’t say I don’t like having him around so much after all the time we’ve spent snatching hours here and there to be with each other. But I just wish the circumstances weren’t so tragic. We lost our baby. It’s something neither of us knows how to deal with. All we have is each other; I pray that’s enough.
We’ve watched Top Gun a hundred times and eaten a million Giant Strawbs between us. Jack has taken me to physiotherapy every other day since my cast was removed. In between sessions, I perform the exercises that were given to me, on various hard-backed cards, at least six times a day. Six times! So basically all I’ve been doing are arm exercises, and Jack has made sure of it, sitting with me for twenty minutes each time and doing the movements with me, as well as pulling me up if he thinks I’m not doing it effectively. I’m bored of arm exercises.
Now I’m reclined on my couch, flicking through the channels, when Jack wanders in with those damn cards. ‘Not again,’ I sigh, the remote control falling to the cushion with my limp arm. ‘We just did some.’
‘Be quiet,’ he scolds me gently, shifting my legs and sitting next to me.
‘But it’s much better. Look.’ I reclaim the remote control and aim it at the television, ignoring how heavy it feels. ‘I can do this.’
‘Yes, but I want you to be able to do this.’ He fists his hand and starts thrusting it in the air, mimicking some hand action on an invisible cock. I gape at him, not because it might be inappropriate for him to do that, given where we’re at, but because I see a slight glimmer in his grey eyes that’s been missing for weeks. The corners of his mouth twitch, and I find mine following suit. And then he laughs lightly, the sound acting like the best kind of medicine there could be. I giggle, my head falling back to the cushion. It feels good, another piece of my broken heart slipping back into place.
My grief will never diminish completely, but I have to hope the pain will eventually become bearable enough for me to move forward. I hope Jack is moving in the same direction too. I drop my head and find he’s smiling. It’s such a stunning sight, and it fills me with hope that with my fading pain comes his fading guilt. ‘You’re very good at that,’ I say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. ‘Been getting a lot of practice?’