“Sometimes death is better.”
…
…
…
…Vegas!
…
…
…
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Vegas is rising from the depth of the abyss, slowly and steadily, until he breaks the surface and slips back into consciousness. The first thing he becomes aware of is the smell; an overwhelming heady scent of flowers mixed with damp musky earth.
His cheek is resting against a damp surface; it’s uncomfortable. Slowly, his eyes flutter open and everything shifts into focus. There’s a bug crawling over the compacted earth just a short distance from his face. The tiny legs move in an oddly coordinated fashion. It’s almost hypnotising to watch.
What happened? Why is he lying on the ground? His head aches, he feels utterly confused. What happened? What’s going on? Where is he? Like flashes during a thunderstorm, the memories return—the sound of the gun firing … something kicks him in the chest hard… a red-hot poker through his chest—FUCK!
I’ve been shot! Vegas gasps in shock as the realisation washes over him, and the haze slowing down his thought processes disappears in an instant. He’s been shot by—somewhere in a dark corner of his mind there are frantic fluttering noises behind a closed door—someone. He’s been shot! Fuck!
And now he becomes aware of the pain, too. Shit, it hurts. Vegas groans in agony and struggles to pull himself up into a sitting position. His left arm isn’t cooperating at all, he can’t move it. It just hangs there, useless.
Where am I? He’s in a greenhouse it seems, must have hit his head hard because no matter how much he tries, the plants in here are just a blur, out of focus, just hazy shades of red and green—and somewhere in a dark corner of his mind there is more frantic fluttering behind a closed door.
Sitting on the wet earth, Vegas looks down at his chest, stunned. Hurts hurts hurts. There is blood on the left side of his shirt. With his trembling right hand, in disbelief, he touches the area where there is a hole in the shirt. Now there is blood on his fingers as well. Strange, would have expected there to be more blood, the thought flutters through his mind. Cannot be too bad then.
Damn, but he’s shaking really badly. Must be the adrenaline rush, his heart is racing like hell too. He’s been shot! Vegas can’t seem to wrap his mind around this, his thoughts are circling around and around the fact that he’s been hit by a bullet. Insane. He should probably go and get help, yes…
Phone… he should call for help… but his right hand is shaking so badly he can’t even hold his phone or turn it on, it keeps slipping through his bloody fingers. I’m bleeding. Should probably get help. And somehow he manages to struggle to his feet.
His chest aches. But Vegas is used to pain, so he just pushes the sensation aside for now—fire, his back is on fire—he’ll just go to the neighbours and make a phone call. It’s more a stumble than a walk as he makes his way out of the blurry greenhouse. It’s so hot, he’s sweating all over. It’s just sweat, not blood, he’ll be fine.
This is Vegas’ first time getting shot, it’s distressing to say the least. His chest feels tight, as if someone has wrapped it in steel bands. This really sucks, he notes, stumbling alongside the house, steadying himself against the wall with the right hand. Where’s the gate again? He needs air, his heart is racing so fast, he needs to breathe. But when he takes a deep breath, the sudden chest pain nearly has him double over. Hurts! Shit!
Vegas stumbles forward, his shoulder hitting the iron gate. More pain, and it’s getting worse. Almost there… he’s out on the street now, such a pleasant, peaceful neighbourhood. Just a little bit further, then he can make his phone call. But first, a short rest.
Vegas leans his back against the whitewashed wall, trying to catch his breath. Can’t breathe, he thinks in a daze, can’t breathe. Every time he tries to take a deep breath to force more oxygen into his lungs, the pain is nearly debilitating. Just a short rest. But his legs are like rubber at this point, no longer able to carry him, so he slowly sinks to the ground, leaving a nasty glistening red smear-mark on the wall.
So cold. Isn’t it summer? Why is it so cold? There are voices approaching him, but the words are drowned out by the thundering, frantic thumping of his heart echoing in his ears. Oh, the friendly old ladies. Vegas tries to give them a reassuring smile but must have failed, because they look scared, shocked even.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he manages to mumble between fast shallow gasps for air.
He doesn’t feel fine though. Every breath hurts and he feels like throwing up. Is he hyperventilating? He must be having a panic attack again. Vegas tries to remember what he was supposed to do again in that case. Inhale. Hold Breath. Exhale. Hold breath. Someone taught him this. Someone—more frantic fluttering noises from the forbidden area in his mind.
The old women around him look distraught; they gesture hectically and then hurry back to their houses.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Vegas repeats in a daze, then notices they are gone already. Damn, he should have asked them for a phone.
Sweat is beading on his forehead, dripping into his eyes, it burns, but this is nothing compared to the burning sensation on his back. It seems to be on fire. His chest too. “… I’m fine…” he whispers again to reassure himself.
Can’t be that bad, there’s only a little blood visible on his chest. Just a short rest, then he will go and ask for a phone. Just a short rest. Vegas blinks sluggishly. Is he lying on the ground again? When did that happen? There is a crack in a stone directly in his line of vision. He can see fragile, green leaves and tiny, white blossoms growing upwards from the fissure. Pretty. Flowers during the winter. It must be winter because he’s so cold that his whole body is trembling uncontrollably. Can’t breathe. The pain is getting worse. Can’t breathe.
The next thing he becomes aware of is someone touching his shoulder.
“… phone…” he mumbles breathlessly. His eyes are burning; it takes a moment until everything shifts from blurry into focus.
Oh.
Help has arrived.
Two paramedics are crouching next to him. At the moment they seem surprised that he is conscious.
“… got shot…” he tries to tell them, but isn’t sure if they can understand him because his teeth are chattering so much.
“Everything is going to be fine,” one of the paramedics assures him calmly.
They move with quiet efficiency, unpacking their equipment. Vegas wants to believe them but his body is insisting that everything is NOT fine.
“… can’t breathe…” he wheezes and struggles to sit up because the sharp pain in his chest is making him increasingly dizzy. “…hurts…” Even speaking hurts. He is used to pain, but this is unbearable, this is nothing he can simply shrug off and move on from. Vegas is nearly paralysed by the excruciating pain radiating through his chest.
“… I am going to check your blood pressure and pulse now…” He feels hands touching him, so many hands, how many people are there around him?
“… I don’t feel so good…” he mumbles sluggishly.
“… Did you fall? Your head is bleeding…”
Is it? Did he fall? He hears the questions but cannot process their meaning.
He blinks again, hoping to be able to see more clearly. Dizzy, so very dizzy. Someone is removing his shirt it seems, cutting it off. He’s carefully turned around, and the movement just makes him nauseous. Voices come and go. Something is put on his back, right where it burns the most.
“… We’re going to put you on a long backboard now and then stabilise your neck with a cervical collar…”
Whatever. He has bigger problems than his aching head. “Can’t breathe!”
When the hands try to push him down, he panics and struggles, because his body is telling him that this position is making everything worse. Thump thump …thump thump… thump thump. Vegas can hear his racing heartbeat in his ears, it is drowning out every other sound. Agitated, he sits up and leans forward and just gasps for the air that refuses to enter his lungs. Something is really wrong!
People keep talking to him, their voices soothing, and that alleviates his panic to some extend, at least until his finds himself firmly strapped down against a hard surface. “…no…” He moans in distress. Something is very very wrong! His chest… Things are not going to be fine! He cannot breathe like this! He needs to sit up!
A mask is fastened over his mouth and nose, and some much needed oxygen is at last hitting his badly struggling lungs. Vegas blinks frantically because by now he’s scared. He’s really really scared. He’s in a sea of pain, someone is attaching something to his burning chest… cables…? There’s an electronic beeping and someone is drawing his blood. There’s an IV gauge attached to the bend of his arm. They must be moving; when did they load him into the ambulance?
Hurts! He must have made some noise because they start talking to him again, but he only understands snippets now and then.
“… I don’t feel well…” Vegas whimpers between frantic gasps. “…something’s wrong…” His chest is on fire; it feels as if an iron fist is clenching his heart, fiery fingers digging into it, deeper and deeper. “…something’s wrong!”
Why can’t he move? Did he get tasered again? I don’t want to get back on the chain! Not again! He fights against the restraints but the pain is so intense that he gives up again and just moans breathlessly. So dizzy… he’s diving and a wave just rolled him and now he doesn’t know what’s up and down. “…help…” he wheezes, panicking, but no one hears him from so far under the surface.
He’s drowning. His regulator is malfunctioning. Why did he go diving again? It’s so dark down here and the waves are tossing him around, making him nauseous. Are those sirens or singing whales? Vegas is drifting further and further away towards unconsciousness.
“Almost there, hang on,” someone tries to encourage him.
Almost where? Is he going somewhere? Can’t. Breathe. Sunshine filters through the waves.
Light. Dark.
Light. Dark.
A long corridor with overhead lights.
So loud. So much noise. So many voices.
Light. Dark.
Light. Dark.
Can’t breathe.
Dark.
Dark.
Dark.
… no need to breathe anymore…
Someone starts cursing, the voices are getting very hectic.
… and the abyss swallows Vegas again.
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…
…
…
Darkness.
Vegas floats through endless darkness. It wraps around him like a soft warm blanket, keeping him safe. He just floats and exists. No thoughts. No distractions. He just exists.
Darkness.
…
…
…
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…
…
…
The current carrying him through the darkness shifts and changes constantly. Sometimes it carries him upwards, closer to the surface. Sometimes there are sounds reaching far down into the darkness.
… beeping…
… hissing…
… thudding…
… murmurs…
… sobs …
Then the current carries him down into the depth again and everything falls silent. Blissful silence. And he floats on. And on. And on. Up and down. Repeat.
…
…
…
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…
…
…
Darkness. Sometimes Vegas gets caught in a sudden upwelling. Up he goes, dragged along towards the surface, out of the eternal darkness into the twilight zone where sounds become more distinct and disturb his rest.
“… severe chest trauma…”
“… weaning him off the ventilator…”
“… slower than we expected…”
“… patience…”
Vegas floats past these words that drift through the darkness like beautiful, shimmering siphonophores. And then the current drags him down again.
…
…
…
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…
…
…
The abyss seems to become more shallow. Absolute darkness gives way to eternal twilight. The blissful silence is now interrupted by intrusive sounds on a regular basis. There’s a constant beeping in concert with other mechanical noises. Vegas floats through the twilight, searching for some serenity, but there’s none to be found.
“… why is he not waking up…”
“… Vegas, please…”
“… give him more time…”
“… maybe faking it…”
“… can you hear me, Vegas…”
“… what do I pay you for…”
“… cannot force these things…”
“… I’m going to brush your hair now…”
“… fluctuating consciousness…”
“… want a second opinion…”
“… no cellphones allowed…”
“… Vegas…”
“… sorry, this might feel a bit unpleasant…”
Vegas dives down down down, as far down as possible and wraps the remaining darkness around himself like a blanket, disappearing beneath it.
…
…
…
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…
…
…
Someone is crying. The sound is impossible to ignore even in the abyss. Someone is crying.
“… come back, please… wake up already… don’t leave me… Vegas, don’t do this to me… please wake up…”
Macau!
The quiet current turns into a maelstrom, whirling Vegas around, shoving him up up up, towards the surface, towards the light.
Macau!
And in the hospital room, Vegas’ hand starts twitching.
…
…
…
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The first thing that strikes Vegas as he regains consciousness is the noise level. After the relative silence in his mind, even the softest noises now sound like thunder to his overly sensitive ears. The beeping is the most irritating sound of all; there are several different beeps and none of them are synchronised. It’s a cacophony of sounds, and in addition to that, the murmur of voices further away and the squeaking of rubber soles on the floor. And nearby, someone’s barely stifled sobs.
That sound stresses him. Vegas attempts to open his eyes, but the eyelids are like lead, so heavy that he doesn’t succeed. What’s going on? He’s so confused. Where is he? What happened? He just wants to go back to sleep. He feels exhausted.
But there is that sound—someone sniffles softly… breath hitching repeatedly—and for some unknown reason, this sound stresses him immensely.
More of his senses come back online, one by one. It smells like antiseptic cleaning products, he doesn’t like this smell, it reminds him of… something.
It takes him a while to figure out that he must be lying in a bed. Soft mattress. Pressure against his back. Pressure around his chest. Pressure around his legs too. This is all very confusing, he can’t make any sense of it.
And there’s something warm touching his left hand. It takes a while for his mind to make the connection—that’s another hand, touching his hand.
Vegas feels increasingly stressed. The beeping around him changes rhythm several times. Someone is holding in their sobs; he recognises those sounds. Someone nearby is very upset and he feels a rising urgency to deal with that, but he cannot move, he’s so exhausted he can barely think straight. Somehow, he manages to make his fingers twitch, he wants to squeeze that other hand, but it ends up being more of a soft flutter. The sobs fall silent. Good. Maybe he can go back to sleep now.
“Vegas?” Someone asks in a very small shaky voice.
Macau!
The beeping around him reaches a new level of urgency, setting off some ridiculously loud alarms somewhere close by. The sounds hurt and Vegas flinches, at least he thinks he flinches.
“Vegas!” Yes, that is definitely his little brother’s voice, even though it sounds strange. “Vegas, can you hear me?”
Kind of difficult not to hear you when you almost scream into my ear, Vegas thinks tiredly. He can feel himself starting to drift away again. Just forming coherent thoughts is exhausting. He uses the last of his energy to twitch his fingers again. This has to be enough. Can’t talk. Must sleep. And then he passes out again just as a flurry of voices descends on him.
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The next time he is more or less shocked back to consciousness by the sudden increase of pressure around his left arm, coupled with a low humming sound. He’s so startled by this that he jerks. Well, he would have jerked, if his body was cooperating with him. Which it isn’t. What’s going on? Where is he? It seems he can’t move. This is vaguely alarming. He should probably find this more concerning, but worrying costs too much energy.
Vegas feels groggy. And very sleepy. Somehow he manages to open his eyes, at least he thinks he does. Everything is a blur, the light is dim. The thing around his arm is painfully tight, then amidst soft, puffing noises the pressure decreases. Beeping to the left and to the right, and further away as well.
Those sounds… they ring a bell but Vegas just cannot figure out what they remind him of. And he can’t be bothered to figure it out either, he just wants to go back to sleep. And as soon as the pressure around his arm disappears, he does just that.
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If only they would let him sleep. But they won’t. He is startled awake by someone touching him and opens his eyes, blinking slowly in disorientation. What’s going on? Where is he? Blurry shapes crystallise into people. A woman in a nurse uniform. Oh? Oh. He’s in the hospital? Why?
“I am sorry for disturbing you, we need to change the dressing on your back,” the woman informs him gently with a friendly smile.
Dressing? Vegas is completely baffled; his mind seems to be working at only 10% of its capacity. What am I doing here, he wants to ask, but when he opens his mouth the only thing that comes out is a croak. His mouth and throat are dry as a desert. But the nurse seems to read his mind, and soon he is given asingle spoonful of water. That seems way too little, but then he discovers that he gets exhausted just by wetting his mouth and swallowing. It feels as if he’s run a marathon, simply performing such a minor task.
He has questions to ask, he wants answers but instead he falls asleep again, utterly exhausted, right as they start rolling him to the side to change the bandages.
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Every time he wakes up, he seems to become more and more alert. When he opens his eyes next, it seems to be night time, the lights are dimmed. Something woke him up… yes, someone is snoring softly. Can’t be him, he’s pretty sure he is awake now and not dreaming. With difficulty, Vegas turns his head to the side, and the sight before him makes him tear up. His little brother—not so little anymore—is sitting beside his hospital bed, his face resting on his hands, which are clutching Vegas’ right hand. He’s asleep, snoring softly, and Vegas’ feels Macau’s warm breath feathering over his skin.
He wants to reach out with his other hand to ruffle his hair but discovers that he has no strength in his left arm; it won’t move. Weird. Why is he in hospital again? Perhaps he had a car accident? Vegas is prone to accidents. It’s too exhausting to think about this, he just gets a headache—something flutters in the depth of his mind. Instead, he focuses on Macau.
Flexing his fingers on the right hand works, he finds out. The minute movement seems to wake Macau, who opens his eyes and blinks sleepily. And finds himself looking straight into Vegas’ tired eyes.
“You’re drooling on my hand,” Vegas whispers, his voice so hoarse it is almost unrecognisable.
Macau bursts into tears. He sobs so hard his whole body is shaking. Vegas finds this alarming, but there’s nothing he can do to comfort his brother. He doesn’t even have the strength to lift his hands.
Some of the monitors bleep hectically and soon after a nurse enters the room to check what is going on. Vegas finds all of this overwhelming. He gives the nurse a helpless glance and instantly receives help—Macau gets a much needed motherly hug. Vegas is too groggy to follow the ensuing, murmured conversation between him and the nurse.
“Love you,” he manages to tell Macau before he drifts off to sleep again.
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Vegas has lost all concept of time. He has no idea how long he’s been in the hospital already, and he still doesn’t know why he’s here. They probably told him already but he must have forgotten it again. It is very difficult to keep track of information, he feels as if he’s drunk. It’s extremely exhausting to concentrate or even stay awake for a longer period of time. This is because of the medication he is being given, they say. What medication, he wants to ask, but then falls asleep again, and when he wakes up he’s already forgotten about the question.
It becomes more and more clear to him that he’s seriously hurt. He’s on two different IVs, there are electrodes plastered to his skin all over his body with cables sticking out of them, so many cables, going to different monitors. There is a sleeve with a clamp around one of his fingers, something to do with oxygen, that much he has understood. He thinks he remembers having a mask covering his face at some point, but now he only has some contraption stuck into his nostrils that is fastened around his head and connected to yet another buzzing machine. It blows a constant flow of warm air into his nose.
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His legs are stuck in some weird, oversized, inflatable socks, also connected to some machine, they inflate and deflate at strange times and keep waking him up. And so does the automated blood pressure cuff around his arm. He has a catheter too, he’s discovered, to his utmost horror.
Then there is the shockingly large tube in his chest that drains an disgusting looking liquid into some sort of plastic bag. Speaking of his chest, the left side is covered with a frighteningly large amount of surgical dressing, and it feels as if the dressing on his back is even larger. What the hell happened to me, Vegas wonders quietly, but the medicine keeps messing with his mind.
He is on strong pain killers, that much he has understood. And even with them he is still in discomfort. His chest aches, and breathing hurts; he can handle it all but wonders just how bad the pain would be without painkillers. The nurses tell him to rest and heal, and so he sleeps most of the time.
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They must have changed his medicine because Vegas is more alert now. And in more pain. But at least he’s awake and aware when Macau comes to visit next time. He has the feeling his brother has been here lots of times, but Vegas’ mind has more holes than a Swiss cheese, he forgets nearly everything after only a short while.
“Oh, you’re awake!” Macau greets him excitedly. He isn’t the only visitor, Porsche is right behind him. Both of them look like hell, Vegas notes, feeling slightly guilty. They must have been so worried about him.
“New medicine.” He smiles weakly at them. “They think I’m sleeping too much.” Speaking is still exhausting; he needs to take repeated breaks to just catch his breath every few words.
“You’re starting to look better,” Porsche points out. He looks subdued, he’s not his bubbly self. He takes a seat next to Macau by Vegas’ bedside; both his brother and his friend look at him as if they’re afraid he will all of a sudden disappear in a cloud of smoke.
“I feel like shit.” Vegas wants to shrug, but remembers in time that shrugging is very painful right now. “If I look better now I would rather not know how I looked a while ago.”
“Don’t worry, Porsche took photos,” Macau informs him and Vegas rolls his eyes. Of course Porsche did.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns Porsche, and is rewarded with a ghost of a smile. Good.
As long as he’s awake and not too exhausted, maybe now is the right time to ask questions. “I guess you’ve already told me this before…” He takes a moment to catch his breath. “… but could you please explain what happened to me? How long have I even been here?”
Porsche and Macau exchange a very cautious look. “You don’t remember anything?”
“No. Not a thing.”
Technically, that isn’t quite true. Vegas’ mind is a sunny place right now. All white and bright. And in the middle of it there is a large bucket full of white and bright paint. Now and then, he can hear something—flutter flutter flutter—especially when he tries to remember, and when he inspects those white and bright walls, sometimes he finds the tiniest little blemish, just a tiny crack, with sounds coming from behind it—flutter flutter flutter. So he takes a large paint brush—where did that come from—dips it into the bucket, and then paints over the spot until everything is white and bright again—and the fluttering has disappeared.
“Well…” His brother and Porsche exchange another glance before Porsche answers. “You got shot, Vegas.”
Vegas blinks in astonishment. “I got shot?” Inconceivable. Yet it explains so much. “I don’t remember getting shot…”—flutter flutter flutter in the forbidden place in his mind.
Porsche sighs deeply. “You were discovered on a street across town with a gunshot wound to your chest. You got lucky; the bullet went in through the ribs, missed the heart by a hair’s breadth, nicked your lung, went straight through everything else and back out between the spine and the shoulder blade. Your back is a mess, you have back muscle and rib muscle damage. That’s why you’ve probably noticed you have problems with your left arm. You had extensive internal bleeding, which caused your left lung to collapse, and they had to remove part of your rib at the front. The bullet got so close to your heart that you were bleeding into the surrounding tissue, which put a lot of pressure on your heart, preventing it from working as it should…” Porsche’s voice trails off, and he swallows hard. Vegas notes he has tears in his eyes. “You nearly died, Vegas. You were in emergency surgery for hours, you stopped breathing in the ER. You scared the hell out of all of us.”
Oh. Vegas swallows hard as well. Yes, that does sound pretty damn serious.
Macau also has tears in his eyes. “And you wouldn’t wake up after surgery. You were in the ICU for days, hooked up to a ventilator, because you wouldn’t start breathing on your own. I really thought you’d never wake up again.”
“I’m sorry.” Vegas doesn’t know what else to say. Apparently he’s messed up again.
“Well, you didn’t get shot on purpose, did you? No need to apologise,” Porsche shrugs but smiles at Vegas.
Flutter flutter flutter—there is a tiny black crack in the bright white space in his mind, and Vegas takes the brush and paints it over immediately. There, all bright and white again. “I wish I could remember…” But maybe remembering would be a bad idea.
“Now that you’re more awake we won’t be able to stall the police anymore.” Macau sighs. “They’ve been asking to interview you about this incident since you regained consciousness.”
“It’s all right, let them come and ask their questions, they’re just doing their job.” Vegas really doesn’t care. There is nothing to tell, he can’t remember.
“Pa isn’t happy about all this,” Macau adds hesitantly, and Vegas instinctively tenses. To agitate their father is never a good idea.
Macau notices his reaction, the monitors get a bit agitated for a moment, and he quickly tries to calm Vegas down again. “Don’t worry, I can handle it. Things are a lot calmer at home than they used to be, everything is better, I promise. You know, Pa even dropped by here when you were in the ICU. You know he cares, he just isn’t able to show it.”
Vegas sincerely doubts that, but is too exhausted to argue. This whole conversation is making him extremely tired again and he stifles a yawn.
“Vegas…” Porsche lowers his voice a bit. “Would you like to see P—”
White noise.
Vegas blinks sluggishly. He has a headache and is suddenly really tired and he doesn’t understand what Porsche is saying. Porsche’s mouth is moving, he is obviously still talking, but Vegas can’t hear a thing.
“I have a headache…” he mumbles, and closes his eyes. “I need to sleep.” And then he simply ignores everything else around him.
His mind is a bright and white and peaceful place.
Flutter flutter flutter.
Humming softly to himself, Vegas paints over each and every crack that appears now and then around him. Bright and white and peaceful.
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The police comes; two officers Vegas has never met before. Macau and a nurse hover nearby, watching the whole procedure with Argus eyes, ready to interfere if it becomes too much for him. The interview itself is very confusing to Vegas; he tries his best to answer truthfully, but there seems to be a lot of information missing from his mind.
“Do you remember what you were doing at the location you were found?”
No, Vegas doesn’t even recognise the address they are mentioning, or where in the city it’s located. And he doesn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing there either. Seems the fluttering got louder.
“Do you have any recollection who shot you?”
No, not a clue at all. Crack… flutter flutter flutter—Vegas meticulously paints over the fissure and all is white and bright again. He was supposed to work with information from the database, that much he remembers, but he has no clue why he set out across town.
“We followed the blood trail from the street back onto a nearby property. Your phone was found in a greenhouse on the property premises.”
CRACK. Vegas recalls nothing, but the beeping from the monitors around him intensifies, and the nurse starts frowning.
“I don’t remember,” he says quietly.
A deep dark crevice has appeared in his bright, white, safe place. Looking closer at it, Vegas sees that there is fluttering in the darkness beyond, and something has started to grow out of it, dark green leaves and what seems to be a flower with red petals shifting into bla—Vegas hastily dumps the whole bucket of paint over this: white white white!!! See, all gone again. White and bright and peaceful.
The beeping dies down again.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t remember anything.”
It soon becomes apparent that this is the theme for this interview: I can’t remember. Vegas does his utmost to help his colleagues, but the memories have disappeared into thin air, it seems. In addition to that, he is hectically painting over crack after crack that pops up in the safe place. White and bright, white and bright. So many questions, so many cracks. So much work to make them disappear again. It’s exhausting. Vegas is getting stressed.
At some point the nurse interrupts and resolutely ends the interrogation, forcing the officers to leave. As she accompanies them outside, Vegas is left trembling. He blindly grabs Macau’s hand when it’s offered and clings to it for dear life. “I can’t remember…” he whispers. “Why can’t I remember? I think I forgot something really important…”
Macau notices how stressed his brother is and enfolds him in a careful hug, holding him until he drifts back into an uneasy sleep haunted by the sound of thousands of fluttering butterfly wings, straining to break free.
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Vegas feels exhausted. His wounds are making progress according to the doctors, but he doesn’t really feel better. They’ve started to reduce his painkillers even more and the pain is on a whole new level that’s difficult to cope with. He tries to escape into sleep as often as possible, but now the nightmares have come back, too. Tem is silently screaming at him, and he doesn’t remember why either. He knows he shot Tem, but why? There is something really important that I forgot about. Post-concussion syndrome his doctors call it. He simply hit his head one time too many these last few months, and now his memory is really messed up.
Most of the times when he wakes up, either Porsche or Macau are around. He’s tried to persuade them not to come every day, without much success. Even Tankhun has been visiting; he seems terribly upset about Vegas’ getting shot, and his discomfort stresses Vegas out, so Porsche convinces him not to drop by again.
On top of that it seems that his father is pressuring the doctors to move Vegas to another hospital, one where the Theerapanyakul family has a private wing. So far, Vegas has resisted, and his doctors are also reluctant to move him. So no wonder he’s exhausted all the time.
To make things worse, word seems to have gotten around that one of the Theerapanyakul sons is in the hospital, because people he’s never heard of are sending gift baskets and flowers. It’s bizarre. Porsche and Macau are keeping a list—this information concerns the family business, they tell him. Who’s sending gifts, who isn’t. Apparently it’s all very valuable to know, for business reasons. Whatever, Vegas thinks tiredly. It’s all too much, he doesn’t need gifts, doesn’t want flowers, and so once per day they give the gift baskets and the flowers to the nurses.
Vegas drifts in and out of sleep. He has the feeling he is balancing on a tightrope high above the ground, a tightrope someone is about to cut. It’s perplexing, he doesn’t understand why he’s feeling this growing sense of urgency.
… the fluttering in the forbidden part of his brain is getting so much worse…
When he wakes up from a late afternoon nap, for once he has the room to himself. There’s a thunderstorm outside. They took out the surgical drain earlier that day and damn, that felt odd. The compression sleeves for his legs are also finally gone. Progress, they call it, and talk about physical therapy. Vegas is skeptical, he can’t even sit up without help, he is weak as a baby.
… and there is something nagging him since waking up, something is triggering the fluttering to a fresh frenzy…
A while later, a group of nurses enters for a routine checkup. Vegas wants to sleep some more; the sooner they are gone, the sooner he can get some rest again. As every afternoon, they’re discussing who gets to take what gift basket before they leave his room again.
“Khun Vegas,” one of the nurses interrupts his thoughts shyly. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep these flowers? They seem special. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
What can possibly be so special about flowers? Flowers are just pretty weeds. Tiredly, Vegas stops looking out of the rain covered window and turns his head towards the nurse who posed the question. In her arms she holds the flowers in question, a huge bouquet of gorgeous, large flowers on dark green stems, red petals shifting into black, with just a splash of bright orange in the centre…
…CRACK…
Fissures are spreading through Vegas’ safe place like wildfire. They’re everywhere, multiplying, completely out of control. No more white and bright and peaceful. Black cracks everywhere, oozing red like weeping wounds, and through those cracks butterflies are crawling, black butterflies, swarming his mind—flutter flutter flutter—a swarm of previously forbidden thoughts and memories, they’re everywhere, there’s no place to hide from them, reality has caught up with Vegas at long last.
… a red and black maw with pale streaks of bone reaching outward like clawed hands
… just call me Pete
… an eerie blood-red meadow of flowers
… a bucket full of thick, glistening strands of nastiness
… the victim has been flayed
… drilled through the tissue and then threaded the cable through that hole
… congratulation Vegas, you got yourself a boyfriend, let’s go steady
… the victim has been opened up like a can of sardines, unzipped like a zipper
… I love you
… You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you
… You really shouldn’t have come here, Vegas
… this isn’t the real Pete…
… he is THE monster…
… he is a cold-blooded killer…
… be a good boy and don’t move
… please put the gun down
… you can’t shoot me
… I’m in love with you… ?
… you’re not going to shoot me, Pete
… please stop, please
… you’re not going to shoot me because you love me, Pete
… the sound of the gun firing
… a red-hot poker through his chest
… Pete…
… monster…
Vegas cracks and falls apart, the puzzle he is made of breaking into a trillion fluttering black butterfly pieces, destroyed by that final piece that should have made the puzzle complete.
The scent of the damn flowers is just as strong as in the greenhouse; the whole hospital room reeks of their sweet, cloying fragrance—no wonder it triggered the memories, Vegas thinks dazedly. He stares at those flowers, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of memories he is bombarded with, and the corners of his mouth starts twitching. To the astonishment of the nurses, he starts to chuckle. Vegas is no longer in control: he’s watching himself dissolving first into giggles and then full-hearted laughter. Those fucking lilies… Pete, the monster, shot him and then sent him those fucking lilies…
The initial confusion amongst the nurses quickly turns into alarm. Vegas is laughing so hard his whole body is shaking with it—it hurts, God, it hurts—but he can’t seem to stop. One by one, the beeping of the monitors escalates, then turns into various screeching alarms as Vegas gasps for breath between fits of laughter and sobs. He’s crying just as hard as he is laughing.
Those fucking lilies… Oh God, oh God… Pete shot him… Pete tried to kill him… Pete is a monster… Pete is the serial killer he’s been hunting…
A sharp pain rips through his chest. Is his heart breaking? It must be. Butterfly thoughts everywhere; Vegas is overwhelmed by them, they slam into him without mercy. He laughs and cries hysterically, and then he is coughing too, he’s coughing blood, spraying it all over the white sheets.
RedRedRed
Hands are trying to hold him down, the doctor comes running into the room, there’s a flurry of activity, then someone injects something into his IV port and a few agonising heartbeats later Vegas crumbles, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Lights out.
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And he’s back in the abyss, floating with the current, up and down, up and down until he finally resurfaces after what must have been an eternity for those waiting for him to wake up. Because they are waiting.
When he finally opens his eyes again and groggily looks around, Macau and Porsche are hovering anxiously at the side of his bed. Surprisingly, even Kinn and Tankhun are present, pacing nervously around the room. All of them look grim and pale. White as snow. Snow White. Where are the dwarves? Vegas can’t move. He’s back on oxygen, it seems; all the monitors are back, the inflatable socks, the automated blood pressure cuff, he is dazed and really doesn’t feel well at all. Right back where he started.
He’s so hot, did they drop him into lava? Spontaneous self combustion is a thing, right? He moans because that’s the only thing he can do right now, and it’s enough to catch their attention.
Macau gives him a little bit of water. Vegas feels so dizzy; the slightest movement of his head sends the whole room spinning.
“Hot,” he complains weakly.
“You have a fever, Vegas, some of your inner stitches got torn during your little meltdown, and they had to open you up again to clean everything. And then you got an infection,” Porsche informs him quietly. “Do me a favour, stop scaring us like this, okay? I don’t know how much more I can take.”
The other three men nod in agreement.
Vegas looks at them and knows he’s supposed to say something positive, but his mind is a dark void. He is burning up with fever. Just keeping his eyes open requires enormous effort. They want reassurance from him, but he has nothing left to give. Vegas is an empty shell, broken, nothing but a pile of ashes.
“Just let me die…” he whispers and closes his eyes again, a lone tear running down his cheek.
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They won’t allow him to die. They’re doing all they can to keep him alive. Vegas has a very high fever; he’s drifting in and out of consciousness, which suits him just fine. He doesn’t want to be awake, doesn’t want to be able to think and feel. … Pete… The physical pain he is in is nothing compared to the emotional anguish. … Pete… It feels as if he’s been dealt a mortal wound to his innermost self. He doesn’t know how anyone can expect him to go on living like this.
When the fever finally recedes, and he cannot retreat into the abyss of unconsciousness anymore, he asks for sleeping pills. Being awake feels like sheer torture, there is no way to hide from the memories that haunt him. Pete shot me… Pete is killing people…
When they deny him access to sleeping pills, he pulls out his drain in sheer desperation, making a mess, and that’s when they sedate him, so he finally gets what he wants.
He’s drugged up to his gills, and for a while everything is put on hold as his body tries to heal from the multiple traumata it’s been dealt. Vegas is drifting, no dreams, no nightmares, no thoughts, unable to communicate with anyone.
After a week they wean him off the tranquillisers. Vegas is dropped back into hell, as far as he’s concerned. Macau and Porsche have no idea what is happening—why Vegas so unexpectedly seems to have lost all will to live.
“Listen, it’s going to be really difficult with Pa’s goons guarding this room 24/7 but I’m sure Porsche and I could come up with a plan to smuggle in your boyfriend, if that’s what it takes to make you feel better,” Macau suggests finally, in desperation after seeing his brother stare at the wall for days, not talking to anyone.
Vegas flinches and the monitors beep a little faster. “No.” He clears his throat because it’s so dry; he hasn’t spoken in days. “Don’t!” Boyfriend, what a joke… It makes Vegas want to cry. “We broke up,” he tells them quietly because how is he going to explain this nightmare to them? He can’t. None of them can go anywhere near him, he needs to keep them away from him as far as possible, for their own safety. “Don’t mention him again, I don’t want to talk about it.”
This revelation leaves both Porsche and Macau speechless. One look at Vegas’ face and they know he really doesn’t want to talk about it, and so they don’t even try to get him to explain. Vegas can hear them whisper though, when they think he’s asleep. They worry, they worry so much. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything about that. All his energy goes to holding himself together.
----------------------------------------
The nights are the worst.
He has the room to himself at night. The lights are dimmed, the monitors beep, and he tries to sleep. But as soon as he falls asleep he is back at the greenhouse, staring at the barrel of the gun and the expressionless, terrifying face of the man he loves, who just shoots him without hesitation. Over and over again. Several times per night.
And when he isn’t revisiting the greenhouse, he walks amongst a sea of blood red flowers, past endless rows of flayed, burned and eviscerated bodies.
It’s pure hell.
Vegas just can’t get over what a true monster Pete has turned out to be. He can’t wrap his mind around it. The pain and sense of ultimate betrayal is unimaginable, it’s paralysing him. He can’t think clearly, he can’t make any decisions. Vegas just suffers and tries to endure until he has learned to cope with this earth-shattering revelation. He will be able to cope with it eventually, right?
The nights really are the worst.
Trembling, he wakes from yet another nightmare to the frenzied beeping of the monitors. The nurses are used to his nightmares by now, they no longer immediately storm into the room when the monitors start showing abnormal rhythms.
Trying to catch his breath, Vegas stares at the ceiling above him, blinking the tears away. He cries a lot in his sleep these nights, no wonder he is so exhausted during daytime. No use trying to stay awake, that doesn’t help either. The sooner he gets back to sleep, the sooner the next morning comes. One day at a time, he reminds hinself.
Then he pauses. He thinks he just saw a movement out of the corner of his left eye. The nurses again—is it time for their nightly round? Tiredly, he turns his head to the side to look.
The room is only dimly lit, the cone of light centred around his hospital bed. There are the chairs against the wall where Porsche and Macau usually sit during daytime, now mostly shrouded in shadows. But clearly someone is sitting there right now.
Before Vegas has time to wonder who his late night visitor might be, he can hear a soft sigh. “You’re having nightmares,” the monster says quietly in a voice as soft as silk, and Vegas is seized by instant terror.
… no no no…
His breath catches in the back of his throat and the beeping of the various monitors rises to new heights. Ohgod ohgod ohgod… the monster has come. He’s stuck here in the hospital bed, too weak to move, and the monster has come! Where is the alarm button? Help! Someone help!
The monster clicks his tongue in disapproval and leans forward, his upper body emerging from the shadows. He’s wearing scrubs, to blend in. Vegas gasps in panic, his heart stutters in terror at the sight of the familiar face—a face he used to love!
“You better calm yourself, Vegas,” Pete tells him in a deceptively gentle voice. “You wouldn’t want anyone to come in here and run into me right now, do you? That would be most unfortunate—for them. Would you be able to live with that?”
Buckets. Flowers. Wings.
Vegas is scared out of his mind. He believes every word; the monster is going to kill whichever nurse comes to check on him. He needs to calm down in order to save them!
Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. Repeat. Calm, I need to be calm. I can do this, he thinks and does his best to keep the frantic beeping of the monitors from turning into full-blown alarms. I can do this. I have to do this. Oh God!
“Such a good boy,” the monster croons, as the breathing exercises start showing effect and the beeping slows down to nearly normal levels.
Make no mistake, Vegas is still terrified. But he’d rather be the only casualty here tonight. He does not want to be responsible for someone else’s death and that is a mighty good motivation to keep his panic under control. If only he could move… but he’s so damn weak, he can’t even sit up without help. He’s got no chance against the monster, no chance at all. He is doomed. …Pete… no, just a monster…
Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. “Are you here to finish the job?” Vegas wants to know and hates how thin with fear his voice is.
The monster doesn’t react to this question as he expects though. No, it exhales a shuddering breath and lowers its eyes before slowly shaking its head. “No, of course not,” it mumbles and sounds… unhappy?
As if Vegas would believe that. No, he’s expecting to die here tonight. Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath.
“Bullshit,” he whispers defiantly.
“I’m sorry,” the monster apologises quietly. It avoids meeting Vegas’ eyes.
Sorry? What the fuck? Vegas blinks in surprise, and the beeping noises speed up again. Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. Where is the damn alarm button? Just looking at the monster makes his heart ache with longing, he can’t help it, and he hates himself for this reaction. This isn’t Pete, this is a monster!
“I’m so damn sorry,” the monster repeats, and Vegas can see that it swallows hard. Just a ruse, he tells himself. Just a ruse. Don’t fall for it.
“Just get it over with,” Vegas responds.
He is scared to death. Who could have predicted that he would be this terrified of Pete one day? How could this happen?
“I’m tired of your games, stop being so fucking cruel and kill me already.”
“I’m not going to kill you Vegas, I promise.” The monster looks up and finally looks Vegas in the eyes. It looks miserable, but Vegas knows now that this monster is a damn good actor. Don’t believe what you see, he tells himself, this is all an act, you need to be on guard.
“What a load of crap…” Vegas whispers. Inhale. Hold breath. Exhale. Hold breath. He can feel himself trembling with fear under the steady gaze of this predator. One false step and…
The monster smoothly gets to his feet, and despite his efforts, Vegas panics. “Stay away from me!” The beeping steps up again as his breathing becomes irregular again, he is just so damn frightened by Pete—no, the monster—oh God… why is this happening?
The monster freezes, at a loss for words. “Please… don’t be scared of me, all right? I promise, I won’t harm you. I’m so damn sorry, Vegas, I swear. You have no idea how sorry I am. Please… please don’t be scared of me…” It’s voice is trembling with sorrow.
Vegas doesn’t believe a single word that comes out of the mouth of this nightmare incarnate. Liar. Killer. Monster.
“Get the fuck away from me, don’t come closer!”
The breathing exercises are momentarily forgotten; all he wants is to get away from this fiend. The stuff of his nightmares. He can’t do this, he can’t handle this. …Pete… Oh God… Why?
“You shot me…” he whispers in a broken voice. “You shot me…”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” The monster is wringing his hands in distress; it stays in place and doesn’t make any move to get closer to Vegas. “I didn’t know, Vegas… I thought… I didn’t know… But when I pulled the trigger, I knew… I knew, but then it was already too late…”
“You’re sorry?” Vegas shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re a fucking monster!”
The monster… Pete… flinches hard. “I love you, Vegas. I know I messed up really bad, but I genuinely love you,” he pleads.
Vegas is struck speechless. This is the last thing he expected to hear. He’s been waiting for these words for the longest time, but that was before he found out that the man standing before him is a cold-blooded serial killer.
“You’re utterly insane,” he whispers, shaking his head in stunned realisation, even though that makes him dizzy. “You don’t love me, this isn’t love… you’re insane.”
“No… you were right all along, Vegas. You told me I was crazily in love with you, remember? And that is really true. I love you so damn much, I just realised it too late. And I’m so damn sorry for shooting you.”
And to make matters worse, the monster has the nerve to start crying.
Vegas is stunned. Pete is actually crying. He can see the tears welling up in his dark eyes, the shuddering intake of breath as he’s trying to keep himself from sniffling.
Crocodile tears. I can’t do this. I can’t deal with this, he thinks desperately. This has to stop. And as the monster’s words sink in, he comes to another painful realisation.
“Everything was fake,” he whispers brokenly. “Everything. All these weeks…” All their precious moments.
He didn’t think his heart could break more than it already has, but Pete just steps on the remaining pieces of Vegas’ heart and grinds them into dust.
“It was all a lie. You faked everything.”
“I really do love you,” the monster tries to convince him, sobbing quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
So am I. Vegas’ injuries may have nearly incapacitated him, but he can still move his hands. Under the blanket, his fingers close around the bundle of cables that are attached to the electrodes placed on his skin.
“I hate you,” Vegas tells Pete quietly, and gives the cables a sharp tug. The connection to the electrodes breaks and all the monitors in his room collectively start to sound a variety of alarms.
Surprised shock written all over his tear-stained face, the monster hastily stumbles backwards and presses himself against the wall just as the door is flung wide open and the room is flooded with nurses and doctors. Vegas catches a last glimpse of him; Pete looks gutted, he thinks. He’s never seen him look this devastated before, never. Very good acting. In the ensuing chaos, the monster slips out of the room, unnoticed, just another person in scrubs, and as soon as he’s gone, Vegas dissolves into tears as well.
How could you do this to me? I hate you. Goddamn monster!
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Vegas mobilises his last energy reserves to explain to everyone that the alarms were a mistake; he must have gotten caught in the cables and pulled at them during a nightmare. He apologises tearfully, and endures another thorough check-up because they’re worried he might have reopened his barely healed wounds again.
His only thought during all this turmoil is that this place isn’t safe anymore. He can’t stay here. The monster will be back for sure, and who knows what he’ll do then? Pete—no—the monster does not deal well with rejection, Vegas knows this only too well. To everyone’s surprise he asks the nursing staff if the bodyguards outside of his door could stay inside instead. Maybe that will help with the nightmares, he explains tiredly, and so he gets his will. They’re his father’s men, but right now he doesn’t give a damn. If he has company, the monster won’t approach him. He orders them not to leave his room under any circumstances, not even during medical procedures.
And then he runs out of steam and falls into a nightmare-riddled sleep; Vegas is once again walking through a sea of blood-red flowers beneath a sky full of black butterflies, wandering past an endless line of flayed and burned corpses who are crying bloody tears, telling him that they love him and that they are so so sorry…
I can’t take this anymore, Vegas decides during breakfast, staring down at his rice porridge. He really has reached his breaking point. Something’s got to give, and it turns out that it is he who will be waving the white flag. Never thought this day would come, he thinks tiredly. How the mighty have fallen.
Just like every day, Macau and Porsche arrive soon after breakfast. They must have been talking to the nurses again, because they cast him concerned looks. They probably heard about his nighttime episode. They’re also surprised to see the guards inside the room, sitting respectfully on the chairs along the wall.
Macau sends them outside and then turns towards his brother, giving him a questioning look. “What’s going on, Vegas?”
“Please give me your phone, Porsche.”
Vegas’ unexpected demand surprises both of them. Porsche hesitates for a moment, then hands over his phone to Vegas. It takes a moment for Vegas to recall the number before he dials. His stomach drops when the call connects—no turning back now.
“Hello Uncle Korn… It’s Vegas…”
Macau and Porsche startle and give Vegas an alarmed look.
Vegas swallows hard. “Uncle Korn… I want to come home. Please let me come home…”
“Vegas!” Macau is shocked, and so is Porsche. They know how hard Vegas fought to get away from the family, to gain his independence and freedom.
Vegas can’t bear to look at them. He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. How the mighty have fallen. “Please let me come home, I am begging you…” he pleads softly. “I just want to come home, please.”
He’s met with a long silence, so long that he wonders if the call is still connected, before his uncle finally replies. “I’ll make the arrangements and send Chan to pick you up.” And then the call ends.
Vegas swallows hard again, opens his eyes and looks at the upset faces of his best friend and little brother and shrugs helplessly.
“I just can’t do this anymore…”
Pete really has broken him. Back into the golden cage he goes.