SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1 by Christa Wojciechowski Page A

can’t move around like that,” the nurse said. “You just had neck surgery.”
    He jerked his head from side to side. “I can’t stand it. The pain! It hurts. It hurts !” He struggled against his neck brace, the skin under his jaw pushing up into slender rolls around his face.
    “Sweetie! What are you doing? You’re not supposed to move,” I said. I thought of the tender bones, the bruised tissue, the sutures. The strange tingle of nausea nagged at the sides of my throat. I looked up at the nurse. She was dumbfounded, and although I was worried, I was also embarrassed.
    “Bring me a doctor! I must see a doctor!” He writhed against the collar. “I can’t breathe,” he gasped, grabbing at the lip of it and yanking it down against his pale collarbone.
    “John!” I grabbed his hands, “Please!” I turned to the nurse. “You must get him something.” I said. “If he keeps this up, he’ll end up paralyzed.” The woman stood looking over him, indecisive. “Miss,” I said, “I’m a nurse–his nurse. He’s been taking opiates for years. His tolerance is enormous. He needs more. Trust me.”
    John heaved and howled, jerking like a panicking animal. The nurse nodded and then ran to a phone on the wall.
    “Sweetie,” I said, wiping his clammy forehead. “It’s going to be okay. Shhhh. They’re getting it. Just hold on. It’s almost over.”
    He whimpered, his pout exaggerated by his bulky chin being pushed up by the foam and metal brace. The thinning hair on top of his head stuck up in a curl. The rest was growing out thick and shiny reddish-brown on the sides. He looked like a helpless infant. Poor John .
    The nurse returned with another syringe. She glanced at me and huffed, as if I were some conspirator. She didn’t seem to believe that he was still in so much pain. I felt like she had expected me to take her side.
    I was just as surprised at his behavior. John had undergone so many operations that it was like a job for him. He usually waved to me as he was wheeled away on the stretcher like a man leaving in his car for work–always so brave. He accepted all his illnesses and remained dear, without bitterness. He sometimes got frustrated if they didn’t manage his pain correctly, but he usually got what he wanted quickly enough.
    I’d never seen him like this though. I was frightened. He moved so erratically that an outsider might think he was purposely trying to undo all the surgeons had just fused together. His pain must have reached an unprecedented level, and I was glad not to be the one who had to endure it. He was the stronger one, trained and hardened against his nervous system.
    The young woman injected the drug into John’s IV. Within seconds he sighed and smiled. “Thank you. Very kind of you,” he said to the nurse. She walked off without a word. He patted my hand. “So much better now, Suze. You’re my angel.”
     
    *
     
    Almost a week later, we brought John home in an ambulance. He looked into my eyes the entire ride, holding onto my hand. He squeezed hard and winced over the slightest bump, but he never broke eye contact with me and never lost the wan smile on his small, pretty lips. It seemed that it was during his most difficult medical problems that he managed the most serene disposition.
    He struggled to put on this show for me. He didn’t want me to be afraid for him, and I couldn’t imagine what he was really going through. I pictured the doctors screwing into his bone. I felt the meaty inside of his skin rubbing against the metal bolts in his neck.
    The ambulance pulled through the blackened wrought iron gates of John’s family’s estate and up to the giant brick mansion that he had grown up in. “Not here,” I said. “Pull around the side.” The driver shrugged at his partner and pulled around to the back.
    Beside the main house and set farther back was a four-car garage, the domain of Old Pete, the Branch’s aging groundskeeper. Next in line was a small