Part Five - Michelle

Michelle’s arm hurt. It was throbbing even more than it had been when she had first woken up. The pain was almost unbearable. She considered pushing the button for the nurse but what was the point? All the nurses and doctors were run off their feet in the overcrowded hospital. She’d have to wait for ages to get a response. Besides, it wasn’t like the painkillers they gave her did any good anyway.

She looked around the hospital room. It wasn’t a small room, probably supposed to have four beds in it but they’d wheeled in another five beds and they were all squashed up together, the stainless steel bars of one bed pressing up against the next.
Michelle’s bed was one of the original ones; it was meant to be there. She knew that because the pale green curtains could be pulled around her bed. A teenage girl had been wheeled in not that long ago and a large middle-aged lady, presumably her mother, had been fussing over her. The lady had looked at Michelle with a frightened look of pity and had pulled the curtains closed around her bed.

“I’ve give you a little privacy, dear,” she had said in a kind voice as though she was looking after Michelle rather than shielding her daughter from the gruesome sight.

Still it had made Michelle realise her bed belonged there. It had its rightful, permanent position. It was comforting, like a small recognition that she was worse off than the other patients.

When a nurse had come to check on her later she had pulled the curtains open and hadn’t bothered to close them again when she left. After everything she’d probably seen, Michelle supposed she didn’t look that bad or maybe it was just that after what had happened to Wellington she didn’t see the point in trying to protect anyone.

Michelle wondered where they had put all the chairs and small tables that were usually pushed up by the bedsides. It wasn’t like she’d had any visitors or flowers yet anyway. It was all too soon for that. Most of the roads had been damaged or were cordoned off for emergency vehicles only. Her parents probably hadn’t even heard about what had happened to her yet. They wouldn’t be able to make it down to see her yet even if they had been notified.

It was strange how she wanted her parents but didn’t want them to see her like this at the same time. Maybe it would have been easier on them, and on her, if she had died.

She choked back a bitter sob when she remembered what the doctor had said when she first came round in the hospital - ‘lucky to have survived’. She wasn’t lucky and she wasn’t sure she had survived either.

He’d had rambled on about prosthetic arms and skin grafts to repair the torn gashes on her face. He’d had said that it would take time to see if her left leg could be saved, to see if there was enough muscle and nerve tissue. He’d told her that it was amazing that she hadn’t died from the shock and blood loss.

He’d had said that word again. He’d said that she was lucky to be alive.

Michelle looked around the room again. She wondered what time it was. The artificial hospital lights and the grey mist of the aftermath that hung over the city outside the square window gave her no clue. It could have been morning or late afternoon. What did it matter anyway?

There was a new guy in the bed opposite her. The teenage girl and her ‘considerate’ mother had left. It was the usual procedure. They were bandaged up, given an IV drip for the dehydration and after a couple of hours of observation (not that anyone seemed to have the time to watch them) they were moved on if nothing unusual had happened. How many of them had cycled through the room while Michelle had been there?

He made her uncomfortable, the new guy. His arm was plastered up in a pristine white cast and he had the usual cuts and bruises. Nothing serious. She looked over him. Longish brown hair, goatee beard, torn and bloodied clothing; the nervous look in his eyes as they constantly darted around the room was the only indication that something much worse than a drunken fall or minor accident had happened to him.

She envied his plaster-covered arm. She had broken her arm when she was seven. At school all the kids had wanted to write their names on it and decorate it with colourful pictures and funny messages. Even the kids that didn’t like her very much had wanted to sign it. Michelle had felt special every time she down looked down at the cast covered with the attentions of so many. She had even kept the cast after her arm had healed.

She doubted that anyone would volunteer to sign a prosthetic arm. They’d all think it was creepy if she ever suggested it.

The heady pull of morphine urged her to close her eyes but as soon as her eyelids fell they leapt back out at her. Snarling mouths and pointy teeth, they lunged and she fell. With her eyes closed even for a second she could feel the teeth tearing at her arm and leg, the flesh ripping away with a shocking, painful heat.

She had to keep her eyes open. She had to try to forget.

It was easier when she focussed on the hopeful possibilities. There was still the mystery of who had saved her, who had got her away from their terrible creatures. She pictured the tall hero, beating his way through the mob of eyeless ones and pulling the savage eaters off her. He moved in slow motion and bent down to pick up her bloodied and unconscious body. Who knew how far he had to carry her before they reached safety? Sometimes he was played by Clive Owen, other times Eric Bana but he always stayed with her until he knew she was safe.

It was a troubling mystery as to where the hero was now. Had he collapsed from exhaustion and injuries he suffered during her rescue? Could he be in the hospital now, being treated in another room? Maybe he had left to go and save others in the fallen city. Maybe he just thought it would be better this way.

Michelle clung to the hope that he would return. He’d show up with a bouquet of flowers, anxious to see that she’d survived. He’d stand by her and keep her spirits up as she recovered. He’d give her a reason to keep living.

Of course there were other scenarios that Michelle played through in her mind. There was always the possibility of the handsome doctor. It wouldn’t happen straight away of course. The medical staff were too exhausted and distracted at the moment but in a couple of days when she started to heal and the hospital wasn’t bursting with the constant flux of patients, that’s when they would meet. He’d look past her horrific injuries and see the beautiful girl beneath. After all, something had to come out of all this horror. Every movie she’d ever watched confirmed it. Nice people didn’t suffer terrible life-destroying losses without then gaining something far more valuable through it.

She held on to her vision and finally gave into the drug-induced slumber.

The following day a doctor came to check on her leg. He was no George Clooney; he was old, with a round belly and he reminded Michelle of her dad. Still, Michelle was afraid. The nurse had changed the bandage earlier in the morning and her expression had been one of disturbed concern. Michelle hadn’t liked the terrible smell and translucent brown liquid that was seeping out of the wound but she hadn’t expected the nurse to look so revolted. Normally the medical staff wore professional expressions of indifference when they looked at her injuries or they smiled encouragingly. Seeing someone look grossed out by her leg had offended her.

“Haven’t you ever seen a half-eaten leg before?” Michelle had quipped to the nurse, only it hadn’t sounded like a joke as she’d intended. Her voice had sounded bitter and scared.

The nurse had just replied that she’d better get the doctor to look at it and then hurried off.

Michelle figured this meant it was gangrene. She was going to lose her leg.

That’s what the first doctor had warned her of. If she got gangrene, the leg would have to go. There hadn’t been enough flesh left to save her arm and she hadn’t even got used to that. Now she was going to lose her leg as well.

It was like that terrible expression people used to say. ‘I’d give my arm and my leg…’ That’s what was going to happen. It was like she was a punch line to a bad joke.

“What’s wrong?” Michelle asked the doctor.

He had being staring and prodding at what was left of her leg for a long time. Then he had started smearing the thick, dark ooze on long cotton-covered swabs. He placed them in sealed plastic bags with threatening biohazard symbols on them. But it was the silence that worried Michelle. That was worse than the thick latex gloves everyone put on before they dared to touch her. People only stopped talking to you when it was something bad. Really bad.

“Are you going to take my leg?” she asked, wishing her voice wasn’t so shaky.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure yet,” the doctor pulled his gloves off and lowered his medical mask. His face wore that familiar reassuring smile but there was something behind it. Curiosity mingled with fear and uncertainty.

“Is it gangrene?”

“No, no, nothing like that. The wound seems free from any infection of that kind,” he rested his hands on the steel end of the bed. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to run a few more tests before we can be certain but it looks like the leg tissue is healing well. More than well in fact.”

“That’s great,” Michelle sighed in relief but then she caught sight of the doctor’s eyes. “It is great, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s impossible to say anything with certainty at this early stage but it appears that some of the muscle may be, well, regenerating, for want of a better term.”

“Regenerating? You mean it’s growing back?”

He nodded. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up. We have to run a lot more tests before we can determine what’s happening for certain.”

“But I might get to keep my leg?”

“Maybe, remember it’s still too early to say. I’m going to get you moved into another ward for now so we can keep a closer eye on you. Still it’ll get you out of this crammed place, a bit more privacy eh?” he waggled his eyebrows like her father did when he told a joke.

She swallowed. She should be grateful. A less crowded room where she wouldn’t feel like such a freak show every time a new person with a couple of cuts and bruises came in. Her leg might even be healing by itself. It was all good news, wasn’t it?

“I’m afraid we’ll have to start lowering your pain relief for some of the sensory tests we’re going to have to do,” the doctor drummed his hands on the frame of the bed as though they were in the middle of a casual, everyday conversation. “It won’t be for long but you might have to tough it out for a while.”

“That’s fine,” Michelle forced a smile and nodded to the empty space on the bed by the left side of her body. “My arm hurts more than my leg anyway.”

The doctor nodded and smiled politely, and then he left.

It was all so strange. None of it made sense. Her arm wasn’t there but it still hurt. Her leg burned like it was on fire and it was supposed to healing?

She should feel relieved and hopeful about what the doctor had said. She should be happy to be moving out of this horrible, overcrowded room. She should feel grateful to have survived, lucky to be alive.

The problem was that she didn’t feel any of those things. She felt alone and petrified. The prospect of the future looming in front of her filled Michelle with fear.

She lay in the bed and waited. She waited for the painkillers to drain out of her system and wondered if the fear would increase with the growing pain. She waited for her uncertain future and prayed that the nightmares of last night really had ended.