Reborn

A/N: Whoopee! The second chapter. The second short chapter. Do not fret, my little readers, because this chapter is simply a fill-in that was truly necessary to the story.

Disclaimer: Still remains the same. I don’t own, blahblahblah.

It was a little after seven o’clock when Zoe Plummer awoke from her drug-induced sleep. Zoe was not delirious, nor was she hysteric or hallucinating or any other side affect that a person might endure after coming out from an antagonizing surgery, where surgeons and doctors raced against time to try to piece her ribs back together while keeping her body stable at the same time. How do I know that? Well, I was there the whole time. From the minute that pompous asshole Christian Cache decided to shove his foot into Zoe’s ribcage to when the medics wheeled her into the operating room to when the nurses brought her into the hospital room that I am sitting in this very moment. Zoe has been given another dose of morphine when she started complaining, though rather vaguely, about a pain in her chest and in the temple of her forehead.

That was about seven-thirty so when I left the room, I informed a nurse of her discomforts and they entered the room. A syringe shining in her hand, the sparkling gold liquid trickling down the needle, the nurse injected the substance into Zoe’s vein. While I pictured the codeine running through her veins, the medicine paralyzing her pain, I took notice that Zoe did not complain while the nurse tended to her, but she did glance momentarily at me, right into my eyes as she dozed off into the land where dreams have no rule, where the pain in overruled by emptiness. I felt a small, searing pain in my heart, not a physical pain, but a different sort of pain. A pain that made me feel light-headed with a feeling that I could not describe, a feeling I do not wish to look into. Not just yet, not just now. A look of admiration was in her eyes, though I do not know why, and the nurse caught onto my reaction.

“She’s very fond of you, dear,” the nurse says to me, in a kindly old tone that reminds me of my grandmother’s voice.

“Yes,” I say, realizing bashfully of how pensive my voice sounded.

“And you of her?” she asks while throwing the used syringe into the red wastebasket marked with a biohazard sign.

“Yes,” again, I sound dreamy.

“Not many women allow their boyfriend to request them more morphine,” the nurse says with a tiny smile before glancing at Zoe.

“I’m not her-uh,” I’m embarrassed and I’m sure my ears are turning as red as my cheeks already are. “I’m just a friend, I’ve known her for-for a long time.”

“Sure, dear,” the nurse states with an all-knowing grin, as if she holds a secret. “And that’s all you want, eh?”

I don’t bother to answer because she is out of the door and into the hallway before I could even begin to respond, which I would have—and loudly at that, had Zoe not been sleeping.

“And that’s all you want, eh?” I can’t help, but mock childishly in an attempt to hide my embarrassment and no one, but myself.

I look down and see my suit jacket isn’t on my body. Then, I remember taking it off once Zoe was moved out of surgery and into this small, dark room in the recovery ward. I was happy to find out she wouldn’t be visiting the intensive care. I had thrown the navy blue jacket onto the table next to the bathroom, the badge shining in the dull light coming from the taupe hallways. Grabbing the jacket with one hand, I sling it onto my body and throwing a gaze to the beautiful woman lying peacefully on the bed, I walk out the door. I sincerely hope she doesn’t wake until I get back, I don’t want her to think I left her. I don’t want her to wake up alone. I am going to go down to the precinct holding Cache before the feds get to him, which they will if I do not hurry. The halls are bustling with nurses and patients, with doctors and gurneys. I see a stretcher roll by, a young man with what appears to be a gunshot wound to this abdomen and a group of a paramedics hovering over him while treating his wounds at the same time. This man, his shirt stained a deep crimson, has a tattoo on his forehead. The ink is black and the tattoo reads ‘13’ in bold, blocked letters. This is why I joined the force. This is why I took off my old uniform of blue and put on a new one. A new one uniform of meaning but still of importance. No longer was I a member of an elite military force full time. I was now a civilian. Only three days of the month am I Navy SEAL because now I was a police officer. No longer do I jump out of planes or swim down deep rivers underwater. Now I interrogate gang members and murderers and child molesters and rapists. No longer do I shoot down the streets of a terrorized foreign city. Now I do paperwork on misdemeanors and criminal charges and petty crimes.

I must move to the side as medics roll by another man on another stretcher. This man has no shirt on and I read the word ‘sewer’ tattooed on his chest, which is slick with blood and I feel a pang of sympathy for this man. By the looks of his condition, he will probably survive, unlike the first man and I feel hope. This man, I have never seen before in my life, but he makes me feel hope. Maybe, after he recovers from what looks to be a gunshot wound, he will have his tattoo of Los Angeles’ most prominent gangs, excluding the bloods and the crypts, removed and will turn his life around. I feel this small beacon of light, of hope; shine down onto this man’s possibilities after his recovery but the chances of him exiting this gang, are slim. Blood in, blood out. Just like the Plummer family.

In the Plummer family, and for five years, going on six, Zoe has been the only blood in.

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