Because people never really think about how, in order to beat the odds, a lot of unfortunate deaths have to occur for that particular survival to be considered “out of the norm.”
Maybe Drew’s death hardened me to the idea of miracles, but in my mind, you either survive or you don’t. The journey from breath to death has nothing to do with miracles, how much you pray, coincidences or divine intervention.
Sometimes a person’s journey from breath to death isn’t always part of a master plan. Sometimes the only thing that separates your last breath from your death is a mere six centimeters.
That’s why-when the doctor walked into the waiting room to update me on Luke’s condition-I had to sit down when he said, “If the bullet had made impact just six centimeters to the left or right of where it did, Luke would have died instantly. Now all we can do is pray for a miracle.”
I failed to tell the doctor that I don’t believe in miracles.
Luke is either going to survive…or he’s not.
***
“You should go grab some coffee,” Ryan says. “Stretch your legs.”
Luke came out of surgery over eight hours ago. He lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion, and I’ve refused to leave his side since.
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving until he wakes up.”
Ryan sighs, but he knows there’s no talking me out of my decision. He walks to the door, “I’ll bring you a coffee, then.”
I watch as he exits the room. He’s been at this hospital the entire time I have, even though I know there are probably job-related things he should be doing right now. Giving statements about what happened last night. Taking statements. Dealing with a murder, an arrest, an attempted murder.
I never saw them take Asa out of the bedroom last night because I was too worried about Luke to care what happened to him. But I could hear him. The whole time I was pressing my hands against Luke’s chest, waiting on the paramedics to arrive, Asa was behind me yelling, “Let him die, Sloan! He doesn’t love you! I love you! I do!”
I never turned around to acknowledge him or his words. I continued to try and help Luke while they pulled Asa out of the bedroom. The last thing I heard him say was, “It’s my fucking cake! Let me take my fucking coconut cake!”
I don’t know what’s going to happen next with Asa. I’m certain there will be some sort of trial, but I honestly don’t want to testify. I’m afraid if I testify, he’ll get off easier than he should. Because I would have to be honest. I’d have to tell them about all the things I’ve witnessed in his behavior; specifically the drastic changes in recent weeks. It’s obvious to everyone who knows him that he’s more than likely developing symptoms of schizophrenia-the same hereditary illness his father had. But if that’s the case, he’ll more than likely be sentenced to a high security mental health facility than a prison.
And even though I do want him to get help for whatever is going on with him, I also want him to pay. I want him to pay for every single thing he’s ever done and I want him to pay forever. In a prison. Where he’ll rot with men who are probably twice as evil than he could ever dream of being.
Some might call that bitter. I just call it karma.
I grip the arms of my chair and whisper to no one. “I’m done thinking about you, Asa Jackson.”
And I am. He’s taken up way too much of my life already and now I just want to focus on the future. On Stephen. On Luke.
There are tubes and wires and IV’s hooked up to him, but I’m somehow still able to find an area on his bed where I can fit if I curl up just right. I crawl onto the bed with him and I wrap my arm over him, lay my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes.
Several minutes later, Ryan’s voice pulls me out of my slumber.
“Coffee.”
I open my eyes and he’s sitting on the chair by the bed, holding a coffee out to me. It’s probably the fifth cup I’ve had since Luke came out of surgery, but I’m pretty sure I’m good for about a million more if it takes that long.
Ryan sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee, then grips it with both hands and leans forward.
“Did he ever tell you how we met?” Ryan asks.
I shake my head.
I can see a nostalgic smile being to play on Ryan’s lips. “We were assigned a job together a while back. He broke cover the second night we were there,” Ryan says, shaking his head. “I was so angry at him, but I knew why he did it. I can’t go into all the details, but if he wouldn’t have outed himself when he did, a kid would have lost his life. Luke couldn’t have lived with himself if that had happened. I knew in that moment that he had the worst kind of heart for this job. But as pissed as I was at him, I respected the hell out of him for what he did. He cared more about the life of a kid he didn’t even know than he did about his own career. And that’s not a flaw, Sloan. That’s a character trait. Pretty sure they call it compassion,” he says with a wink.
Maybe Drew’s death hardened me to the idea of miracles, but in my mind, you either survive or you don’t. The journey from breath to death has nothing to do with miracles, how much you pray, coincidences or divine intervention.
Sometimes a person’s journey from breath to death isn’t always part of a master plan. Sometimes the only thing that separates your last breath from your death is a mere six centimeters.
That’s why-when the doctor walked into the waiting room to update me on Luke’s condition-I had to sit down when he said, “If the bullet had made impact just six centimeters to the left or right of where it did, Luke would have died instantly. Now all we can do is pray for a miracle.”
I failed to tell the doctor that I don’t believe in miracles.
Luke is either going to survive…or he’s not.
***
“You should go grab some coffee,” Ryan says. “Stretch your legs.”
Luke came out of surgery over eight hours ago. He lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion, and I’ve refused to leave his side since.
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving until he wakes up.”
Ryan sighs, but he knows there’s no talking me out of my decision. He walks to the door, “I’ll bring you a coffee, then.”
I watch as he exits the room. He’s been at this hospital the entire time I have, even though I know there are probably job-related things he should be doing right now. Giving statements about what happened last night. Taking statements. Dealing with a murder, an arrest, an attempted murder.
I never saw them take Asa out of the bedroom last night because I was too worried about Luke to care what happened to him. But I could hear him. The whole time I was pressing my hands against Luke’s chest, waiting on the paramedics to arrive, Asa was behind me yelling, “Let him die, Sloan! He doesn’t love you! I love you! I do!”
I never turned around to acknowledge him or his words. I continued to try and help Luke while they pulled Asa out of the bedroom. The last thing I heard him say was, “It’s my fucking cake! Let me take my fucking coconut cake!”
I don’t know what’s going to happen next with Asa. I’m certain there will be some sort of trial, but I honestly don’t want to testify. I’m afraid if I testify, he’ll get off easier than he should. Because I would have to be honest. I’d have to tell them about all the things I’ve witnessed in his behavior; specifically the drastic changes in recent weeks. It’s obvious to everyone who knows him that he’s more than likely developing symptoms of schizophrenia-the same hereditary illness his father had. But if that’s the case, he’ll more than likely be sentenced to a high security mental health facility than a prison.
And even though I do want him to get help for whatever is going on with him, I also want him to pay. I want him to pay for every single thing he’s ever done and I want him to pay forever. In a prison. Where he’ll rot with men who are probably twice as evil than he could ever dream of being.
Some might call that bitter. I just call it karma.
I grip the arms of my chair and whisper to no one. “I’m done thinking about you, Asa Jackson.”
And I am. He’s taken up way too much of my life already and now I just want to focus on the future. On Stephen. On Luke.
There are tubes and wires and IV’s hooked up to him, but I’m somehow still able to find an area on his bed where I can fit if I curl up just right. I crawl onto the bed with him and I wrap my arm over him, lay my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes.
Several minutes later, Ryan’s voice pulls me out of my slumber.
“Coffee.”
I open my eyes and he’s sitting on the chair by the bed, holding a coffee out to me. It’s probably the fifth cup I’ve had since Luke came out of surgery, but I’m pretty sure I’m good for about a million more if it takes that long.
Ryan sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee, then grips it with both hands and leans forward.
“Did he ever tell you how we met?” Ryan asks.
I shake my head.
I can see a nostalgic smile being to play on Ryan’s lips. “We were assigned a job together a while back. He broke cover the second night we were there,” Ryan says, shaking his head. “I was so angry at him, but I knew why he did it. I can’t go into all the details, but if he wouldn’t have outed himself when he did, a kid would have lost his life. Luke couldn’t have lived with himself if that had happened. I knew in that moment that he had the worst kind of heart for this job. But as pissed as I was at him, I respected the hell out of him for what he did. He cared more about the life of a kid he didn’t even know than he did about his own career. And that’s not a flaw, Sloan. That’s a character trait. Pretty sure they call it compassion,” he says with a wink.
