Fake (A Pretty Pill) (8 page)

The thought is slightly con
fusing, yet I continue to stare because she isn’t in a hurry to move or to do anything.

S
he’s very pretty, stunningly so.

Her hair is
brown; light brown, long and straight.  I can see it pulled back into a ponytail with the length draped over her shoulder.  Her eyes are dark.  They must be the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, because I feel like they’re sucking me in like black holes; hypnotizing me.  I notice her breathing and suddenly I understand her hesitancy; it isn’t me standing there in fear, it is her.  She is petrified of me, and I can’t understand why. 

And then I see
a duster in her hand.  Not a nurse, she’s a cleaner.  She doesn’t know anything about me or what I’m capable of.  To her I might be extremely dangerous.  I can be, certainly sometimes I am, but I’m not in this moment.

The
feeling of relief I experience in realizing she’s not a nurse is intense.  I need to get her onside.  She’s terrified alright, but she also hasn’t bolted yet.

“Help me.”
I plead softly, internally begging her to assist me.

She hesitates, but only slightly, before putting the duster down outside the door and walking toward me.  I have no idea what her reaction will be when she sees my knuckles.  They’re pretty beat up, but they’re also fixable.
  Right now I’m surprised she’s moving; she must have a reservoir of courage behind the fear.

I turn around to face her.  She baulks, looking at my chest briefly before looking down at my hands.  She scouts around the room and narrows in on the blood on the shower wall.

“I’m not a nurse.  I should go and get help.”

“No,
please.” I plead.  I need her help to stop anyone discovering my stupidity.  “They’ll send me back; I just couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.” I plead, looking at her with desperation.

“I…” she begins to say something, and then changes her mind.  I’m staring at her eyes now; I see the shift in her darkish, blue/grey eyes.  They aren’t as dark as I had imagined at first.  Perhaps her pupils had dilated right
out when I stared at her before; that happens with fear.  She reaches forward and grabs my hands and turns them over and then back up.

“I used to be a medic.” she sighs, and I begin to thank the
cosmos for finally sending me some good luck. “I’ll go and get some dressings and help clean you up.  You won’t be able to hide the dressings though.” she warns.

“I’ll wear a jumper.”
I gush, becoming excited about the prospects of having someone on my side for once.

“A what?” She asks, a confused expression crossing her face.  Sometimes I laugh at the differences between American and Australian words and meanings
, this is just another example.

“A sweater.” I explain.

“It’s still warm out; it will look a little suspicious.”

“I don’t care, as long as it keeps me from going back to hospital.” I argue.

She lets go of my hands.  I instantly feel the loss of our infantile beginnings of a connection; however, she then moves around me to use the sink to wash her hands.  I can’t help but notice her proximity and her smell.  She smells delicious, I really shouldn’t notice it, but I do.

“Okay, I’ll be back shortly.”
she says, wiping her hands on her jeans.

“What’s your name?”
I ask her before she leaves.

“Isi.”

“Izzy?  That’s your name?  It must be short for something else.” I try to lighten the mood; get her to laugh or smile, which she does.  She has an amazing smile.  It makes her face look like an angel’s.

“Isi,
not Izzy.  The sound is an ‘s’, not a ‘zz’ sound.  It’s short for Isobelle.”

“Isobelle.”
I repeat, looking deeply into her eyes and quietly begging her to be my friend and keep this secret.  I want this curious connection to grow – I have a strong feeling it’s important; that she is somehow going to be very important to me.

“Isobelle Mulligan.”

“Help me, please Isobelle.”

“Okay Mr. Tayte;
I’ll be right back.  Just place your knuckles under cold water till I return.”

“Silas; my name is Silas.”
I inform her, “Please call me Silas.”

“Well, Silas; call me Isi, and I’ll go and get you some first aid.”

She leaves and I’m left standing there wondering how on earth I managed to come across a sweet, helpful woman who could bend the rules and fix me up too.  Not only that, but she’s pretty to look at as well.

She returns fairly quickly
and this time I hear her shut the door.  I’ve been standing in this towel and in this position for only a short time, but the burden of adrenalin and fear have made me feel tired and in need to sit down.

“Come on out Silas.” she says.

I turn the taps off and go to the bedroom, where she has set up some sort of field hospital on my bed.  An absorbent yet waterproof sheet is set down at the edge of the bed beside the chair. A packet of nondescript items and some bandages are lying to the side of that.

“Sit and put your hands on that.” she says, pointing at the absorbent sheet.

“Thanks for doing this for me Isi.”

“Why did you do it?” she asks, kneeling on the other side of the bed and leaning across.  She tears open the package
and pulls out a plastic sheet.  She pulls at the edges to flatten it out on the unmade bed.  A small tray is folded within it, and she ruffles the edges of the plastic till it falls the right way up.  She grabs a pair of tongs and brings them to the edges, laying the tips inward.  And then she pulls some small bottles of saline from her jeans pocket, breaking the top and pouring it into the tray.  She dips the gauze into the water using the tongs, and then she wrings them out using the two sets of tongs cooperatively, before beginning to wash my knuckles.

“Silas?”

“Oh, I was thinking about something, someone actually; my ex-someone and it made me angry.”

“So you punched the shower wal
l repeatedly I’m guessing.”

“Yes.”

“That’s pretty silly.” she says, but she smiles.  “I probably don’t need to go to this much trouble.” She begins to explain her ministrations, “but I just want to be careful of infection.” She smiles.

She continues to clean, and then she gets some gloves from her pocket and puts them on.  She grabs some
antiseptic ointment, also from her pocket and begins to rub my knuckles gently with it, using a cotton bud.

“Why did you only ‘used’ to be a medic?” I ask.

“I was an Army medic.”

“You went to war?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look old enough to have become a medic and then go to war.” I reason.  She doesn’t look much older than me.  Maybe 21?

“I’m 25.” she states.

“Oh, I’m 19.” I say, and
I feel all at once how I didn’t want there to be such a gap between our ages.

She smiles.

“Did something happen that meant you couldn’t be a medic anymore?” I ask.

She instantly breathes in through her clenched teeth.

“Sorry.” I say softly.

“I got
injured; IED.  Unfortunately pretty common over there.” she says quietly.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  You look pretty good for someone that was blown up.” I smile.

“I don’t look so good under the clothes.” she says disparagingly.  It’s obviously a sore point.

“Me neither.” I say.

She looks at me and begins laughing.

“What?”
I ask smiling.

She manages to compose herself.  “You look pretty damn fine from over here.” she argues.

I look down and realize I’m completely on display- except for the one area I’m trying to explain.

“My hips have lots of scarring
; the entire front of my pelvis area and a little around the side resembles a patchwork quilt.  I was in a pretty horrific car accident when I was a kid and had multiple surgeries.” I explain.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” she says, a mortified look crossing her face.

I smile at her. 

She briefly stops and stare
s at me, before shaking her head and continuing with the cream on my other knuckles.  She continues our conversation and with it, she makes me feel special, because I have a feeling she is telling me things no-one else gets to hear.

“I did two
tours; I was on my second tour when I was ‘
blown up’
.  I just do jobs that are mundane and easy now.” she explains.

“You don’t get a pension?”

“It’s boring to sit at home; besides, the demons come out and play when you do that.  Best if you keep busy.” She says absentmindedly.

Oh my fucking God
.  She’s kind of getting me.  That pull, that hypnotic effect she had on me before is dragging me back in.

“Me too.”

“From your accident?” she asks.

“No.  I’m bipolar.” I risk saying. 
Watch her run away now.

“Sucks hey.” she says, shaking her head and pulling one of the bandages from its package by popping it open.

“You’re bipolar?” I ask, suddenly very animated.

“No, but I get having shit going on in your head.  I’m PTSD.” she says, as she begins to wrap my knuckles.
  She suddenly displays a look on her face that lets me know she thinks she’s said too much, but I don’t mind at all – so I just keep talking and asking her questions.

“PTSD?”

“Post Traumatic Stress; but if you tell anyone here, I’ll just tell them you’re delusional.”

She’s trusting me with information.  It says something about her.  She’ll keep my secret… I’ll keep hers too.

Again I smile, and again she stares, shakes her head and then continues with her work on my damaged knuckles.

“Your ex,
” She begins, popping the other bandage and beginning her final assault on my hands.  “Male or female?”

“Do I look gay?”

“You can’t tell these days.”

“Female.” I answer.  I don’t need a long discussion regarding gender dynamics.

“She must be silly.  You seem really nice and you’re very handsome.” she says matter-of-factly.

“I can be a bit of a handful, and you’re pretty cu
te yourself.” I say in response, surprised at my forwardness.

She raises her eyebrows at that.

“No really, you’re a very attractive woman.” I argue.

She gives me an
‘oh please’
look.  It makes me chuckle.  What is it about beautiful women who can’t be told that they’re beautiful?

“I’m 6 years older than you.  I should look like an old woman to you.”

“Well you don’t.” I tell her.

She just finishes up
, stands and then begins to pack up the rubbish, pushing it down into the dark plastic bag on the side of her cart.

“Thanks for the help Isi.”

She suddenly stops and looks intent at me.

“You’re Australian aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing over here?”

“Working when I can.  I’m kind of stuck in a mental health facility at the moment.” I explain, slightly chuckling at my own joke and looking around at my surrounds.

She smiles… its breathtaking.

“What do you do?” she asks, standing next to her cart and keeping a distance between us.

“I’m a mixed martial arts fighter.” I tell her.

“UFC?”

“Ye
ah.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Wow, that’s probably why you seem so grown up.” she says.

“I’m big for my age.” I grin lopsidedly and chuckle.

Oh my God, I’m flirting with her.
I’m flirting with this woman.

“Big how?” she says
, dropping her head to the side.  But then she realizes she’s flirting back and back peddles quickly, her face falling and whitening at the same time.  “I’m sorry, I mean, don’t answer that hey.”

“I meant it innocently.” I laugh.  I really laugh. 
I’m so lying about that innocent bit, but she’s funny and this comment makes her look even more ashamed. 

“Right, well, I’m mortified
and I’m going to go now.  Um, could you please do me a favor?” she asks, closing her eyes as I stand before her with my towel beginning to drag down..

“Definitely.”
I reply, fixing the towel.

“Can you pop your head out the door and see if any other staff out there?  Actually, anyone at all.” she asks me.

“Sure.” I get it.  It would look really bad with her leaving my room and people realizing I was also in here.  Especially given my level of undress.

I walk around toward the door and up beside her.
  I have a sudden thought.