SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1 by Christa Wojciechowski

John returned from surgery smelling of salty Betadine and dried blood. The metallic odor mixed with the sweetness rising from his body—the scent of healing wounds and drugged sleep. His eyes trembled beneath their lids. The anesthesia was wearing off. He would wake up at any moment. I held his hand, as I always did, and hummed his favorite lullaby.
    This was one of John’s most serious surgeries. He fractured his neck after taking a fall down the stairs, and the surgeons had to fuse his cervical spine together. He would be limited in the way he could move his head from now on. I tried to imagine what was to come. The quality of his life, our life, was getting progressively worse.
    His eyes fluttered open and he saw my face. He smiled angelically and then winced. “The pain,” he whispered. “Tell the nurse I need more.”
    The recovery room was empty. We only had the company of the machines–the heat blowing into the warm air blanket that hovered over John’s body, the monitors beeping out the rhythm of my dear husband’s heart; no matter how many times he went under, that steady, determined beat never ceased.
    “Suze,” he rasped, grabbing my wrist.
    “Yes, the pain.” I patted his hand and stood up to go look for the nurse, a robust young woman of mixed race who was stationed behind a small counter in the adjoining room. She was writing on some charts. “Miss,” I said, “my husband is in terrible pain. Could you give him a little more medication, please?”
    She looked up with a pleasant smile. “Sure thing, Mrs. Branch.” She grabbed the arms of her swivel chair and hefted herself upward. She prepared the medication over the drug cart that was parked next to the counter. Then we both returned to my husband’s bedside.
    “You got some pain there, Mr. Branch, huh?” she said.
    He gazed up at her with glassy, pleading eyes.
    She took the cap off the syringe and inserted the needle into the IV. “I know that spinal fusion is no joke. Now you just relax.”
    “Thank you,” he whispered. He smiled weakly, gratefully, like an old dog that’s been patted on the head.
    The nurse recapped the needle and walked away, but before she reached the disposal bin, my husband spoke again.
    “I don’t feel it, I don’t feel anything,” he said.
    “Good,” I said, “you’re not supposed to feel anything.”
    “No, I mean I don’t feel the drug,” he said. “What did she give me? Ask her what did she give me?”
    “Just wait a few minutes,” I said. “Give it time to act.”
    “What did you give me?” he yelled toward the nurse.
    She rushed back to us. “You’re okay, Mr. Branch. It was just some Tramadol, that’s all. I know it may feel intense, but it’ll taper off soon.”
    “Tramadol? Is this some kind of joke?” He panted heavily and glared up at the nurse. “Don’t you see I’m in pain here? I have screws in my vertebrae. There is cold, hard metal in my body!”
    “Calm down, Mr. Branch,” she said. “It may just take a minute to settle in.”
    “I need morphine,” he said. “That is what is indicated after a surgery like this.”
    “I’m not permitted to give you any more morphine, Mr. Branch.”
    “But this is unbearable.” He moaned, and then turned to me, desperate. “Suze, please, do something. It hurts. It hurts .”
    “Are you sure you can’t give him something stronger?” I asked the nurse. John had a high tolerance to pain medication. He always joked that he needed an equine dose to get the same effect as normal people.
    “I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I was told not to.”
    “Sweetie, just relax,” I smoothed his forehead. “Shhh. Keep still. You’re going to make it worse.” He always liked when I did that, smoothed his forehead, but it wasn’t working.
    “The morphine!” he said. “This is inhumane! Cruel, negligent!”
    “John, you’re making a scene,” I said.
    “Oww!” His face reddened. He tried twisting his head. “Oww!”
    “Sir, you