“I'll give you a safe word,” I continued, trying to focus on the facts, the straight-forward parts of things that I could say and still sound detached. “We'll start slow, but the most important rule is that when one of us uses the safe word, everything stops.”
Usually, the safe words were for the Subs, but X's emotions were so shaky right now, I needed him to know that I wouldn't push him past what he was comfortable with. He needed to know his own limits before he could expect to work with someone else's.
“All right,” he said. “When do we start?”
While there was a wariness in his tone, I didn't hear any of the bitterness I'd grown used to. That alone encouraged me enough to keep back the voice in my head that said I was going to regret this.
“Later this week,” I said. “But right now, I need to get those dressings changed.” I heard my voice shift back to the same tone I used with all my patients. I didn't want to think about how that compared to how I was speaking before.
“I'll go clean up.” He walked away, but not before I had the chance to see that faint flicker in his eyes.
Hope.
As soon as he walked out the door, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, letting everything just flood over me. All of the confusion, the uncertainty, the negative and positive alike. I let myself feel it all, knowing that I needed it to process before X came back, or I wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done. The thought of touching him had to be completely professional, with nothing else behind it. That was the only way this could work.
By the time he came back into the room several minutes later, I was back to myself. Anything inappropriate that I may or may not have been feeling was carefully locked away, and I was ready to deal with the business at hand.
Even if he was only wearing a pair of clean shorts that showed off just how much good the physical therapy had done for his entire body.
“Have a seat.” I gestured toward the bed. “Any pain?”
He shook his head.
“Be honest,” I said as I started to get out the things I needed. “Better to tell me now than end up back in the hospital because you didn't realize how badly you hurt yourself.”
“Just the usual twinges,” he said. “There's no blood, nothing that looks or feels like an infection.”
I started with his back so I wouldn't have to avoid looking at him. There were only a couple spots here that still needed attention. They were places that hot metal had embedded itself into his flesh. I was the one who dug them out. Forty-seven pieces in all, mostly small fragments of wood and metal, but, at least, half a dozen had been more than an inch long.
I worked in silence for several minutes, finally sliding back into the skin I usually wore, one of a nurse and caretaker. The job I'd trained for. When I moved around to his chest, I found it easier to work, even when I felt his eyes on me.
“I didn't feel it.”
I almost jumped when he spoke. Even at the hospital, he hadn't done much talking while I worked. It'd mostly been me carrying on a one-sided conversation to keep his mind off of things.
“The explosion,” he said. “I didn't really feel it. I had a couple light burns from where some debris fell on me when I came out with the kid, and I'd inhaled enough shit that I was spitting it out, but I wasn't really hurt.”
I didn't say anything, and I didn't think he needed me to. Even though we had the on-site psychologist talk to him, I didn't think they'd gotten much of anywhere. He might've talked to Father O'Toole about what happened, but considering the father's concern was great enough to get me here, I doubted it. Which meant he hadn't talked to anyone about the explosion. I knew he needed to speak to someone, if only to get it off his chest.
“I saw the man when I grabbed the kid, but my first priority was that boy. Once I got him out, I looked around to see if any of the rescue vehicles were there. An ambulance had made it, but the fire trucks had gotten held up for some reason. I heard later it was a traffic jam.”
A traffic jam caused by some punks who decided to push a row of grocery carts across a two-lane highway because they thought it'd be funny. I wasn't sure if X knew that part, but I did. The firefighters and paramedics who came in that day had told a few of the staff and word had gotten around. The fifteen-year-olds had gotten six months each in juvie and a bunch of community service.
“I didn't know if the guy was dead or alive,” X continued. “But I couldn't leave him in there to burn.” He barked a bitter laugh. “I should've.”
I kept my face blank as I took his arm and stretched it out so I could take care of the still-healing skin there. I knew why he was bitter about it, and I didn't blame him.