Classification: I think this series went completely Alternate Universe long ago — although I’m trying to stick as close to canon as possible

Spoilers: Anything could pop up.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG-13, some language.

Synopsis: Donna wakes up and is forced to evaluate.

Warning: Less angst!

Series: This story is twenty-fourth in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

Kaleidoscope’s Lens 1/2

By Lacy

Believe me when I tell you it’s times like these you wish you were dead.

Before, with the…uh, wait...give me a minute…I’m having a few memory issues right now. Don’t worry it’ll come to me. I’m just a little slow, that’s all. My brain has a lot of information to process just now and unfortunately, all data not associated with physical pain goes to the end of queue. It totally sucks.

Right, there it is. Pictures of a tall, scary man holding a gun to my head flash across my eyelids. It’s like a movie in my mind, and not exactly cinematic brilliance at its best, if you know what I mean. As I was saying, before, with the guy…you know…the bastard who did this to me...I never actually wished I were dead. I merely accepted it as a forgone conclusion; something I no longer had any control over. I just want to be clear that there was no actual wishing.

Actual wishing begins…now.

You see…I’ve found that the deeper I withdraw into myself, the less the pain can touch me. And when I say pain, I mean to say agony. Ripping, throbbing, searing agony. Yeah, those are good words. And it’s pretty much everywhere. Except deep down — in the dark.

If only I could just find that place again. I had it earlier, before some rude boor stuck a megawatt spotlight in my eyeball and started yelling at me. And now it’s like a constant torture. A reindeer game. Let’s see if we can prolong the poor girl’s misery for as long as possible...you know, just for fun.

I’ve since discovered that I’m in a hospital. Oh, joy.

So, now, whenever I’m about to dive down into that sweet, welcoming darkness, someone has to come along and poke at me. They yell things. Sometimes I understand what they’re screeching but most of the time, I couldn’t care less.

Sometimes I even manage to speak. It’s hard though, because making my brain form the words, and telling my mouth to work is…well, is there a word that means worse pain than agony? Earlier, someone was screeching something about waking up and I think I responded, ‘Move along. Nothing to see here.’ Then the screeching voice, which I’ve managed to identify as female, asked someone else if they thought that was strange. Thought what was strange? Me? Strange?

Well, excuse me. If I recall correctly (and to tell the truth it’s possible that I don’t), I was beaten about the head with a pistol and, oh yeah, a car window. Of course some things -- namely my brain -- aren’t going to be in optimal working order! Take a pill, lady.

Speaking of pills…do you think I could get one? Something nice and painkiller-y. What is up with you people? A little something to take the edge off would be good here -- maybe something with a narcotic kick to it.

Hell. Nobody ever listens to me. I need someone to PAY ATTENTION! Despite my lack of communication skills at this time, I think I'm being fairly clear about what I need right now.

Okay. I feel the need to set some ground rules, just so we can be a bit more sympatico -- if you know what I'm saying. Here goes. Pain. There's a scale, and I'm going to call it...hmm...let's see...The Scale of One to Ten. Admittedly, not a brilliant title, but I've got a pretty nasty headache going on right now, so a little slack cutting might be in order.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. Pain, and my scale to document said pain. Number one, the lowest on the pain scale, would be...say...that nagging little ache you get between your shoulder blades when you've been sitting at a computer too long. Number ten would be when the mistress of the torture chamber forces me to wake. We're at about a seven right now. It's doable.

A shiver rips through my body and the pain has the audacity to rocket up to a nine. Did I forget to mention the cold? How silly of me. It's freezing in here. It's cold everywhere, I mean. Not just on the outside, but on the inside too.

Except for my hand. That seems to be warm enough. It's wrapped in warmth, and I squeeze my hand tighter to see if I can make the warmth spread. Hmmm, strange. The warmth just squeezed back.

And then, glory of glories, I can feel someone placing a blanket over me, and it's nice and toasty like it just came out of the oven. I think that's a magnificent idea -- an oven for blankets. Someone listens to me after all. Someone understands what I need. Someone can read the signals my body is sending.

Do you think I could get a painkiller sometime soon? I'm still working out a signal for that one.

In the meantime, I'm trying not to think about the pain. I tell myself to think about something else. Think about tomorrow, or the next day. It'll all be better tomorrow -- I hope. No, think about the warmth, instead. My warm hand seems to be the only part of my body that doesn't hurt.

If I could just center my consciousness there, then maybe I wouldn't need the dark place so much. Because, as welcoming and as temperate as the dark place is, it still scares me. It frightens me to the core because it reminds me of another dark place.

One that wasn't quite as warm.

It was cold there. So cold. Colder even than here. The other dark place offered no welcome, but instead held me fast in a frigid and bony grip from which there was no escape. I remember how I shivered and tried so desperately to breathe. Why couldn't I breathe?

Oh, yeah. I remember now. I couldn't breathe because my knees were drawn up so tight to my body there was no room for air. I was imprisoned by a nightmare of icy chrome and steel, with razor sharp edges that sliced mercilessly into me with each breath I took. My head was submerged in sickeningly-sweet moisture that pooled beneath me -- the scent of it assaulting my nostrils. I wanted to recoil from the odor, only half aware of its meaning. But there was no room to recoil and the stench of it follows me still.

The shivers, a sign of my body turning against me, only made the pain worse even as it does now. They went on and on, until they my body decided that it'd had enough. Then, there was no more cold and I felt suddenly blessed -- an answer to an unprayed prayer. Until my body began to burn from the inside out. Like a victim of an atomic blast, my clothes melted into my flesh, fusing with me on the molecular level, or so it felt. I wanted nothing more than to remove them but my immobility made that impossible.

So when a new dark place called, offering comfort and succor, I answered wholeheartedly. I slipped in to The Warm like a thief's hand into an unguarded pocket. I discovered that The Warm keeps its promises. There was no more pain, no more bone chilling cold and no more skin-scorching heat. There were no extremes of any kind, only a protected nothingness where I could stretch my limbs and release my worries.

All my worries but one.

The darkness reunited with the light and the two blended in perfect harmony as though, in some distant pre-time time, they had never been separated. Standing at my back, the darkness pressed me gently towards the light, but I resisted. Something held me back -- a nagging concern deep in the back of my nearly forgotten subconscious.

It would have been so painless to just slip away. Stepping into the light and immersing myself in the vibrating hum of its beckon would have been as easy as breathing. So much easier. It would have been as effortless as dying. Well, you know…if it hadn’t been for the nagging, begging, bossy voice in my head.

Bossy? Oh yes, I see. It’s all becoming so clear to me now.

Josh.

Josh was the one worry that wouldn’t let me go — wouldn’t let me slip into the promise of peace. He was faceless and nameless then, only a feeling really. But even in The Warm the insistent begging touched me, brushing up against me on all sides no matter where I turned. Tethered to the world by words I couldn’t perceive, a face I couldn’t see, but a soul that shouted as loud as any voice.

I remember that I didn’t want him there. Didn’t want him to call me home, back to the pain, and the cold, and the tongue-tingling taste of blood. Coming home meant reminding myself to breathe, even though it would have been easier to forget.

The closer I came to the pain, the farther from the Warm I emerged, the louder his voice became. The sound of his sweet persuasion intermingled with recollections of anger and abhorrence. I could not reconcile the dichotomy. I thought, maybe I had died after all. In the Cold I remember thinking, ‘Am I dead yet?’ But what if I had been dead all along? Maybe death had tiptoed up from behind and stolen me on the run; taking me so quickly I’d never seen it coming.

Another voice comes to wake me, just as I was beginning to leave the pain behind. No surprise there — I could set a watch by it. Josh should set his watch by it.

But there are no watches needed in the dark, because there is no time there. I slip in and out -- for how long I have no idea. Doesn’t matter, anyway. The pain washes over me like a tidal wave then recedes as I leave the light. It would be nice to stay asleep forever, to ignore the voices that regularly disturb my solitude. But they are unrelenting — sometimes familiar and sometimes not.

Occasionally, I’m able to emerge on my own, before sinking back and wondering what the hell I was thinking. The pain washes over me less and less, bringing my overall pain rating down to about a five. It’s an enormous relief.

More voices — adamantly demanding my attention. There’s no way to escape them, or put them off. Believe me, I’ve tried, but to no avail. Might as well give them what they want so that they’ll go away and leave me in peace. At least until the next time.

The light I see now doesn’t have a cozy vibrating hum. Instead it pierces my eyeballs like red-hot glowing pins. Thankfully, the heat subsides and I’m able to open my eyes. Doesn’t matter. For what it’s worth, they don’t do me much good anyway. All I can see is the light and the occasional person-shaped blob. Or rather, two person-shaped blobs.

A hand digs into my shoulder and–Ow! Why do they have to do that? I’m awake already!

And then there’s another hand, one with fingers brushing my cheek. I turn into it, seeking its warmth.

"Donna?" the voice whispers.

Wait. Stop the presses! I know that voice. I could never forget that voice, probably because it brings with it a two-pronged assault of love and hurt. Josh. Damn, why does Josh have to be here?

"Donna?" Josh asks again. "We need to you to stalk a bus."

Huh? Stalk a bus? Do I look like I’m in any condition to stalk a bus?

"We need you to talk to us, Donna."

Oh! ‘Talk to us’. Well, that makes much more sense -- although, I’ve got to say, it would be only marginally easier than stalking a bus.

"Go ‘way," I manage to croak. The added pressure on my throat for the need to make words kicks my pain levels over the edge of seven, and right into eight. My body tenses up to ward off the pain but that only worsens it. Relax — I tell myself — and don’t forget to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.

"I know you just want to sleep," he says. "I know how bad it hurts."

Is he still talking? And, for the record, I don’t think he could possibly know how bad this hurts. How can he understand the ripping, searing pain that my body is goi–? Oh, wait…nevermind. So, I’m willing to concede that Josh might be able to sympathize with my physical pain. But, as I recall, when he was in the hospital they gave him drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

"Donna, I need you to talk to me."

God, he is such a nag! "Bite me." Once again, searing pain, but much more satisfying this time.

His throaty chuckle wafts into my ears, and I can almost see his face. I love it when he laughs. His laughter is rare and precious. He sounds tired. When he gets tired, his voice gets croaky and the pitch lowers. That’s how he sounds right now. And there’s something else, too. Worry and apprehension, and something I can’t quite focus on. I recognized his voice when I heard it, perhaps by instinct, but now it sounds different entirely. He sounds changed.

"She’s always been…colorful," Josh says to someone who is not me — probably the nurse.

"Bastard." It seems that the more abusive my language becomes, the less it hurts to speak. Hmm…this has interesting possibilities. "You suck."

"We had a fight," he explains, his voice sounding distinctively sheepish. I can see his forehead crinkling up in my mind’s eye (because my real eyes aren’t working that well). "She’s having no problems remembering that."

A fight? That wasn’t a fight. He hasn’t seen me in a fight! That…what he did…what he said…that was a completely one-sided accusation. The Great Unsubstantiated Allegation. That’s how I’m going to refer to it from now on. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? If he wants a damn fight, I can give him one.

Ow! Damn, damn, damn. Note to self: indignation results in extreme physical pain during recovery.

"Donna?"

Still with the talking?

"Donna?" his voice gets softer, and I can feel him sitting down beside me as he takes my hand in his. And now it’s warm again. So, Josh was the warmth. He’s been here the whole time?

"Sleep," I tell him in, no uncertain terms.

"Donna, you can’t sleep right now, because your head’s been hurt."

Brilliant, Sherlock! You just may be a Fulbright Scholar after all. What was your first clue? Might it have been the blood gushing from my head? Did you give government money to a think tank to figure that out?

These are the thoughts that go through my head, but what comes out is, "Duh." I think that pretty much says it all, don’t you? It’s amazing how a single non-word can communicate so much.

"The doctor says it’s time for you to start trying to stay awake, Donna. Got to get the juices flowing."

"Uh," I pout.

"I know."

"Screw you."

"So, I’m guessing you’re still mad."

"Go to hell."

"Been there, done that," he sighs.

"Water?" My throat is raw from lack of use.

"You’re thirsty?"

No, I want to go skinny-dipping! "Uh huh." My throat hurts, and if I want to continue verbally abusing him then I’m going to need some water. And I've discovered that my physical pain decreases conversely in proportion to an increase in verbal abuse. Pretty neat, huh?

He holds a straw, which I can only hope has some liquid attached to the other end of it, up to my lips. That's right. Bring it on. Ow! It hurts to suck. That's funny. That's right, folks, say it with me now. It sucks to suck. The iciness of the water soothes my throat, but wreaks havoc on the stinging cuts on the inside of my mouth. It's worth it, though.

I turn my face away from the straw when I'm finished.

"Better?"

"Better," I say, and discover that it doesn't quite hurt my throat so much to talk anymore. "Except for the drum section in my head." Oh, but the split in my lip makes it not so much fun after all. No long diatribes from me today.

"Think you're up to staying awake for awhile?"

"Uh huh."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Wish I could forget."

"You went into shock, Donna. You were hypothermic when they found you." Well, that explains the cold I can still feel in my bones. "They did a MRI, but everything came out fine. The doctor says you're going to make a full recovery."

"Now would be good."

I can hear him smile again. His thumb moves back and forth across mine in a gentle caress. The room becomes so still, all I can hear is the beeping of the assorted machines to which I'm attached.

"I waited for you to come back," he whispers, "to put up a fight. To come back and yell and scream, and tell me what a bastard I am."

"Bastard."

"Yes, I know."

"Two bastards."

"Okay…?"

Follow me here, Josh. That’s right. Follow the bouncing ball. "Two bastards. One night."

"They caught him, Donna. He’s in jail."

"Cop killed," I say, which reminds me of something else. Another cop I heard about that got killed. "Poor Charlie."

"Yeah, I hear Charlie’s pretty upset. Everybody’s upset."

"How long?"

"How long have you been in the hospital?"

"Uh-huh," I sigh.

"Almost three days," he answers. Three days? God, I don’t remember any of it. I guess there are a few more holes in my memory than I thought.

"Work?"

"Everything’s being taken care of," he promises. "You don’t need to worry about it. Just get better, Donnatella." There’s an almost unending moment of silence before he speaks again. "I’m sorry, Donna…about everything. The things I said were…God, they were so wrong. I have no excuses to make."

"Uh huh."

"I called my therapist yesterday and told him what happened — not the specifics…but enough. We’re going to start working on controlling my anger. I just remember that I kept shoving down the better voices in my head. I wouldn’t listen and you ended up getting hurt."

"Uh-huh."

"I just wanted you to know," he goes on, hoping I’m still listening, "that I regretted my words as soon as I said them. Also, that I never, for a single moment, stopped loving you." He sighs, and I can practically see him biting down on his lower lip as he debates whether to continue. "When the police came to the door I…" his voice cracks just the tiniest bit. "I knew I would never get the chance to apologize. I’ll do anything to make this right, Donna."

Does the phrase ‘magic words’ mean anything to you? Josh, you can be such a sloppy politician. P.S. on the Note to Self: Don’t forget to make Josh grovel when you get better. A little groveling will be healthy for him.

I don’t know what he can say or do, if anything, to make up for what happened that night. I don’t think we can ever again be what we were. I think I’m not even the same person I was just a few days ago. Aside from the fact that I have more scars now, than I did then.

I know that I still love him. For reasons that can’t be wiped away by the anger he displayed towards me. I will always love him, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to be in love with him again. That’s going to take some time…and a whole lot of trust.

I nearly died. I may have holes in my memory at present, but I clearly remember preparing myself for death. I remember at the end, wanting to live and wanting to have a chance to do the things I’d never been able to do. I remember being afraid that he would have to identify my body — being afraid, not for myself, but for him.

He didn’t mean those things he said -- not deep down. That’s what he says and, for now, I think I’m going to believe him. I won’t be one of those women who puts up with all kinds of crap from a guy just because she loves him. But still, he was so enraged it terrified me.

I don’t know what to do, and I think I would give anything for someone to come along and tell me how to handle this. I’m unaccustomed to not knowing how to handle any situation that comes my way. It makes me feel a bit lost, with a little free falling mixed in.

I can’t make this decision right now. I’m in no condition to weigh the pros and cons of having Josh remain a part of my life. He wants back in and a part of me really, really wants to leave the door wide open. But another voice inside warns me to watch my back.

"I thought about letting you go," he says. "I thought, you could be happier without me in your life. I never understood what you saw me in me anyway. But…when the police came…when they said they couldn’t find you…. They said there was a time window for getting you back alive, and you exceeded it. I swore that when they got you back I wouldn’t let you go again. I’m not giving up on us, Donna. All I’m asking is that you don’t give up on me. I’ll get better. I’ll do whatever it takes to get better. I have to." He clears his throat, and I hear him running his fingers through his hair. "We’ve both beaten the odds, Donnatella, and I think we can do it again."

"Not…now, Josh."

"It’s okay," he answers, but I can hear the disappointment in his voice. "This can wait until later. I just had to say those things."

"I listened."

"Good. Did you hear the part about me loving you, because if not–?"

"Yes, Josh."

"Okay. I just wanted to be sure."

"Remember?" I say. "No brain damage."

"No," he chuckles. "I always knew you had a head that was as hard as rock."

"I think," I begin, "you have us confused."

TBC

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