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JANUARY 13, 2016 / EASTCLIFF HOSPITAL

Morning came. It was hell.

Asher didn't realise how pumped up with morphine he'd been last night, until he'd woken up in the grips of pure, hellish agony. His throat hurt, limbs ached and he wanted to itch the ankle that was no longer there. Then his nurse, Juanita, came back and gave him a small dose of ibuprofen. He had to sip it from a teaspoon, which was degrading enough, only to find out it helped as much as putting a teaspoon of water on a forest fire.

Juanita then asked him if there was anything she could do. "Are you hungry yet? Do you have any questions?"

"Nope," he sourly replied. Juanita nodded amiably, fluffed his pillow and left the room.

A shiver of guilt ran through Asher. He didn't mean to be so curt and ungrateful. As nurses went, Juanita was doting and motherly and didn't overstay her welcome. She was warm yet understanding, giving him enough space to make him feel cared for but respected.

But God, he wanted to destroy something.

The rage that simmered in his gut was white-hot. The grief was equally potent. Vasily had to help him hobble on his foot to the bathroom last night, and again in the morning. Asher had to grip the handle on the wall with one hand and shake with the other. Given how off-kilter his body felt, it was a miracle he didn't fall.

He was an invalid now. If there was one way he would end up in a wheelchair, Asher believed it would be if his imperfecta worsened and debilitated him. Yet here he was, unable to stand up alone because of a fucking drunk driver. How cruel.

The tears fell of their own accord. Asher pulled a pillow over his face and roared. He roared until his voice cracked and his throat felt like sandpaper. What he wouldn't give to have his leg back.

Would he spend his life savings? Yes.

Would he burn his house down? Yes.

Would he throttle Juanita the next time she came to check on him?

Sigh. No.

Yes.

No.

Such violent thoughts were unusual for Asher. For the most part, he was quiet and contemplative. He didn't damage. He observed. Reflected. Yet where had his wallflower-ing gotten him? Absolutely nowhere. Worse than nowhere actually, if nowhere was zero, neutral. Wallflower-ing had taken him from his hard-fought position in life into the negatives. Maybe it was due time Asher started taking what he wanted. If need be, by force—

"Asher," Vasily's head appeared from behind the door. "You have a visitor."

"Who?"

"Mr. Donte. He said it's quite urgent."

"Fine. Send him in."

Moments later, Herschel Donte strolled in. He gave a thin-lipped smile to someone outside of the room, presumably Vasily. With the toe of his combat boot, Herschel nudged the door shut. 

"How are you feeling, boy?" he wearily asked. There were dark bags underneath his eyes.

"Could be better. Could be worse."

Herschel tipped his head to one side, examining Asher. His eyes trailed over the bruising and cuts on his face, some of which were bandaged, others not. His gaze marched across Asher's body, lingering especially where the threadbare blanket sunk after his left kneecap. Faintly, Asher saw his eyebrows tip upwards. Then it was gone.

"You don't look too shabby, Delrov. So I won't have to feel guilty."

"About what?" Asher asked, dread trickling down his spine like rainwater.

"About revoking your membership at the club. We'll no longer be sponsoring you in your competitions."

"W-what? Why? Is it because I lost my leg?" The chances of Asher ever riding a bike again were looking bleak. "I'll find a way to ride again, I prom—"

"Of course it's not your leg," Herschel barked. "It's because you lied, Asher, and the media have been on my ass about it. Questioning the integrity of my business. And I won't have it."

Asher couldn't fathom what he was talking about. "Lied?"

"Yes! The day you signed up, there was a nifty lil' box on the form where you should have written that you had a goddarned bone disease! When the media found out I let a teenager with osteo-whatcha-call-it compete in Motocross, they started defaming my club."

"I'm sorry. I— How did they even find out?"

"Who cares? Maybe the news companies found your medical record. Or a nurse slipped it. Or your father, though I don't think he'd spoken to journos yet."

"I didn't think this would happen—"

"Well, it has happened. The MX superstar with a bone disease. Boy who tried to defy odds, fails. I've had parents pull their kids out. Asking if I didn't care about your safety more than glory, why I would care about theirs. And if I say I didn't know about your condition, they'll twist it to mean incompetence. When in reality, you kept it from us, Asher."

"You wouldn't have let me race! You wouldn't have even let me on the track. For once, I wanted to prove I was capable enough to be active and not break. And I did it! I fucking did it, sir, and I won't apologise for that."

A burdened sigh exited Hershel's nostrils and, with it, his shoulders sagged and head drooped. Asher felt a wave of pity wash over him. All these people impacted by the crash. His father, Kerrish, now his coach.

"I'll talk to the journos. Every questioning parent. I'll explain that it wasn't your fault."

"No need. It'll die down eventually."

"I insist. I want to help."

"Look," Hershel's tough demeanor softened. He offered Asher a sympathetic smile. "I only wanted to deliver the news in person. And see that you're stable. Just focus on getting better. You're a tough kid, but this is going to be hard. Good luck."

Only when the door clicked shut after Herschel did Asher slowly release the breath he'd been holding.

"Thanks, sir," he whispered.


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