If you have not read part 1 of Green Chipped Paint, I encourage you to read it first before beginning part 2! If you enjoy today’s post, please like and reblog!
It was hot. God it was hot. I could feel one of those oscillating fans blowing air across my damp skin, it creaked slowly as it moved back and forth. I tried to open my eyes, but only one would. As I peered around the room, the memories came flooding back. The dirt road, the gunshots, the truck. My leg throbbed, as if to remind me it remembered to.
I was in a hospital bed, some kind of tubing was stuck my arm. An IV I think they called it when I was at the hospital the last time. Pete had really done me in for that visit. Cast iron skillet across the back of the head for not making his eggs right. I lied and told the nurse I had fallen down the stairs. She didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t of either.
The bed may have belonged in a hospital, but wherever I was now sure wasn’t one. The windowless room was clean and dimly lit by a lamp on my bedside table. I could make out my back pack draped over a chair in the corner along with my clothes. Someone had dressed me in a nightgown, the soft cotton kind like Mama wore when times was better. There was a door on the far side of the room, with a sink and counter along side it. There was wound dressings and clean gauze, sterile doctors equipment and the like. Wherever I was they seemed to know what they were doing.
Over the sound of the fan I couldn’t hear anything else. When Rachel at the diner told me about The Underground, she said the less I knew ahead of time the better. She only said they were good at saving people, and I sure did look like someone that needed saving. The shiner on my eye from Pete’s mood swing the night before was glowing like a red light, and so were my eyes. Getting beat on a regular basis is one thing, bring offered legitimate help was something else.
After mentally taking in the room, I suddenly realized a bathroom was missing. A bathroom I desperately needed. I tried to swing my legs down from the bed only to be reminded by the dead weight of the cast that my leg was in no walking shape. A thick plaster cast went from ankle to knee, heavy and white in the dim lighting. I groaned. The bastard shot me. He had beaten, bloodied, and burned me but this was another ugly “first.” I winced thinking how lucky I truly was. If he had nicked a vein I would’ve never made it here. Wherever “here” was.
A gunshot rang out somewhere in the building above my head. In the distance, I heard a voice yell. Pete’s voice. Maybe I wasn’t so lucky after all…