My Life Is You

Dillon turned and waved one last time before taking Brad’s hand and following him out to the car. The sound of music and laughter faded as Jeremy closed the front door behind them.

Giving a jaw-popping yawn, Dillon smiled. "I am pooped, baby," he said to Brad. "It was a great party, but I’m just not as young as I used to be."

Brad brought Dillon’s fingers to his mouth and kissed them. "It’s a good thing that you’re staying at my place tonight, then," he commented as he unlocked the car doors. "It’s only a twenty minute drive compared to the hour it would take you to get home."

After helping Dillon into the car and pecking him on the lips, Brad jogged around the front of the car and slid behind the wheel. Tuning the radio to a station playing soft, soothing music, he rubbed his fingers against Dillon’s jaw. "I’ll have you home soon, baby, and then you can get a good night’s sleep."

Dillon smiled and reclined his seat back so that the seatbelt barely touched his body. His eyes drifted closed and he was lightly sleeping before Brad had even pulled out of Jeremy’s driveway.

Dillon felt as though his head was going to explode. He didn’t remember having all that much to drink at Jeremy’s house warming party, but his head had never ached this much. In fact, his whole body ached. He seemed to be one big, red-hot nerve, pulsing and throbbing in pain.

He sucked in a breath, trying to control the need to cry out against the pain. Suddenly, he heard someone moving around. Soft-soled shoes squeaked as they passed over an unseen floor and then Dillon felt a presence leaning over him. He struggled to open his eyes, but for some reason seemed to be unable to do so.

"Well, well, well," a tender voice said, "Welcome back to the world of the living Dillon Marshall." A hand stroked his hair back then moved down his arm. "I imagine you’re in quite a bit of pain. I’ll get a doctor in here and we’ll see what we can do about that. It’s a good thing you waited until I was making my rounds to wake up."

Once again Dillon heard the squeak of unseen shoes. He wanted to protest, to beg the person not to leave him. But for some reason his mouth was too dry to form words.

Nothing made sense. What had she meant about a doctor? Was he in a hospital? He’d never been hospitalized for a hangover before. Why on earth would they do so now?

This time he heard multiple pairs of feet entering the room. Someone moved to the foot of the bed and he heard a jangling noise and then some papers being flipped.

"I’m glad to see you’ve decided to join us Mr. Marshall," another female voice, this one sounding older, said. "We were beginning to worry that you didn’t like us."

Once again Dillon struggled to speak. He wanted to ask so many questions. Who were they? How did they know him? Why was he in so much pain? Why couldn’t he open his eyes? But while his mouth opened and closed, he was unable to force any sound out.

"Tina, I think our young friend here needs some ice chips," the older voice said. "He’s bound to be thirsty after so long a time without anything to drink."

"I’ll get some right away, Dr. Morgan," the kind voice said. Then, her footsteps retreated again.

"Now, I’ve worked with lots of patients as they come out of comas," Dr. Morgan spoke. "I’m pretty sure you have lots of questions going through your head. Let me see if I can answer most of them for you."

A coma? He had been in a COMA? He couldn’t have been!

"You’ve been with us just over two weeks now," Dr. Morgan continued, seemingly unaware of Dillon’s panic. "You were in a car accident, but we got to you in time. It’s a good thing, because you were pretty bad when you came in. I’m not going to sugarcoat things. I don’t see it doing you any good.

"Your right knee was crushed. We’ve done reconstructive surgery and after some hard work, you will walk again. It’s going to take time, but we have some amazing surgeons here at Crestwick Sinai.

"Your right arm is also broken in two places, but they were clean breaks and give every indication that they will heal fine. You’ll also have to work to regain some of the strength in that arm, but if you played tennis before, we’ll make sure you do again.

"The real challenge was your eyes." This statement was followed by a sigh.

His eyes. He couldn’t open them. The world was dark. It had been bad enough when she’d been listing off his other injuries. Then, she had just sounded matter-of-fact. Now, though, there was something else in her voice.

"The car you were in was badly damaged by the force of the impact. The steel cage crumpled, striking you on the back of your head, causing a severe concussion and damage to your Occipital Lobe. I don’t know how much you know about the brain, but the Occipital Lobe is responsible for the interpretation of what you see. Right now, CAT scans and MRIs show massive swelling and bruising in the region.

"That would be enough to concern us, but you also got glass in your eyes. Slivers penetrated right through your eyelids in order to pierce the eyes themselves. We dug out all that we could fine, but your corneas are severely scarred."

Dillon felt like he couldn’t breathe. What was she telling him? Was she saying he was blind? She couldn’t be saying that! There was just no way that could be true!

"We do have a small bit of hope. There is a chance that when the swelling goes down and the bruising subsides, your brain will have healed enough to process whatever input your eyes supply. However, they’re not going to be giving much. In other words, Mr. Marshall, the most you can hope for is to be able to distinguish when large objects are in the way, even while you won’t know what they are."