***
You always seethose scenes in movies or on TV when someone is experiencing atraumatic event and they’re being rushed to the hospital.Everything happens in short, vividclips of faces, flashes of light, and voices telling them they’regoing to be okay. But you never stop to think that it’s like thatin real life.
It is. Butworse.
My mind sankunder the surface of my consciousness, only coming up for air nowand then. It was a way to deal with pain. The excruciating painthat came with the vivid clips of faces, flashes of light, andeveryone telling me it’s going to be okay. I remembered theambulance arriving at Signal Hill and hands, so many hands, comingfrom every which way, grabbing and pawing at my body to remove myblood-caked clothing. Every movement, every tug and pinch sent volts of pain and forced agonizedmoans from my body, but it all stemmed from my shoulder. I screamedat some poor paramedic as she accidentally ripped my jacket furtherand grabbed her by the throat. They restrained me after that.
The drive tothe hospital was an endless pattern of questions followed by pokingand prodding. I felt a hand grasp my face as its fingers lifted myeyelids and shone a light inside. “Miss, do you know yourname?”
“C-Cobham,” Isqueaked out, “Dianna Cob–ow!” I’d thought for a moment that theycaught fire to my shoulder wound and I realized that the otherparamedic had just begun cleaning it.
“Dianna,” theother woman spoke, “I need to know what happened. How did you getthis wound?” she asked. More poking and prodding. “Where did youcome from? How did you get to Signal Hill? Who did this to you?”The questions never ended, and my head spun with all the answers Icouldn’t speak in this reality. They’d think I was insane, and thelast thing I needed was to end up at the Waterford.
“Could ananimal have done this?” the male paramedic asked her.
She leanedover my body and examined the gash across my shoulder. “No, I mean,maybe?” she replied, “But what kind of animal? Nothing like thataround here.”
She wasn’twrong. Maria Cobham was an animal from another time.
Before wereached the hospital, I fell unconscious, whether from the pain or exhaustion or meds they’d givenme, I had no idea. But my mind fluttered awake in short spurts.Being moved to a stretcher. Blackness. Doctors rushing me down ahallway as the blinding lights passed overhead in a nauseatingpattern. Blackness. Being moved to a flatbed and more questions I could never answer.Blackness.
When I finallyawoke again, it felt like it had been unusually long since I’d lastbeen alert and my brain lagged with a strange fogginess. Pain meds.I vaguely recalled the similar feeling when I’d had my appendixremoved a few years ago. The annoying beeping sound nearby throbbedin my brain and the sunlight filling the room hurt my eyes.
“H-hello?” Ichoked out. Like a drunk person, I tried to move and shifted enoughto find a call button next to my bed and rang for a nurse. It onlytook a few seconds for someone to show up.
“Well, goodmorning,” the woman greeted as she went straight to the machinesand IV bags stationed next to me, checking them over and glancingdown at the chart in her hands. “You’re the talk of the town, MissCobham.”
An agonizedmoan crept out of my throat. “What? Why? Where am I?”
“You’re in St.Clare’s Mercy in St. John’s, girl,” she told me and began checking my shoulderdressing. “You were found near Signal Hill, collapsed on the groundand covered in blood. You’ve got the strangest wounds. Do youremember what happened?”
I tore my gazeaway from her and stared out the window, blinding sunlight bedamned. “Someone attacked me with a knife,” I told her, hoping itwould be enough to satisfy the police.
“Jesus. Must have been some knife. You’re luckythey found you when they did. You lost a lot of blood,” sheinformed me. “I’ll go grab the doctor now and you can chat withhim.”
“No, I’m fine,really, just tell me where my things are, and I’ll get out ofhere,” I pleaded.
I could seethe pity she felt as she cocked her head to one side and pursed herlips. “Oh, honey, you won’t be getting out of here anytime soon.You just had major surgery to fix that shoulder of yours.” She letthe words settle on my ears. “You’ll be here for a few days forobservation. Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Yes, but helives three-hundred-years in the past. “No, thanks,” I told her butthen remembered. “Wait, yes. My aunt. She lives in Rocky Harbour.Mary Sheppard. I... I don’t know her number off-hand and I don’thave my cell phone.”
The nursepatted my hand and smiled. “No worries, Dianna. I’m sure it won’tbe hard to find her number. Rocky Harbour ain’t that big.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll go grabthe doctor for you now, and I’m sure the police will be in to visityou and get your statement.”
She left me,and the silence of the room magnified against the annoying beeps ofmachines that surrounded me. A quick assessment told me that my onearm was useless. The surgery left it numb and they’d wrapped itheavily before setting it up in a high-tech sling of some sort. IVneedles tugged at the insertion points in both my arms, a gross anduncomfortable sensation. I tried to relax as I turned my gaze tothe big, bright window next to me, letting the sunlight burn myeyes and numb my brain.
Being here, inthis… time, it didn’t feel real. More like a super vivid andpainful dream. I wanted nothing more than to wake up and find Henryin bed next to me. My gorgeous, rugged, sweet pirate king. I felt atear escape the corner
