JANUARY 12, 2016 / EASTCLIFF HOSPITAL

How can one know so much pain, yet still be so ill-equipped to deal with it? 

This was roughly along the lines of Asher's first thought when he woke. Roughly, because his mind wasn't thinking in full sentences, let alone phrasing questions. All he knew was obscurity. He realised that he hurt. And that he'd been hurt before. It was all familiar, see. His underused joints that whined like rusty door hinges. The tender, weak muscles that could barely twitch on their own, stabbing like fresh wounds when they did.

It was all familiar. Asher had known pain like an old friend since childhood, yet every meeting with it still knocked him off his feet. Or, was that the car?

The car. A car?

As consciousness gradually trickled back to Asher, more pieces of his life snapped into place. He remembered being in Australia. Is that where the accident happened? They drive topsy-turvy down under, he reasoned. Each click of the puzzle came with a fresh twinge in his skull, until thinking became torture in itself.

Taking a reprieve from the mental strain, Asher threw his head back on the pillow. For the first time, Asher scrutinised his surroundings in detail. The hospital room was small, but private. There was barely enough space for the bed, the bedside table and two small armchairs for overnight guests. No windows. Kitten poster on the wall. Air-conditioning set to freezing.

Then he examined himself. One glance was enough to explain why seemingly every part of him ached. A blood-filled syringe was attached to his elbow, connected by IV line to his bloodstream. Asher recalled his past experiences with surgery. That would sting coming out. His hands were bloodied but bandaged, weighed down by the layers of gauze. 

Asher gingerly lifted the covers to see the damage down below. His torso seemed to be fine save for thick bandages wrapped around his chest, indicating a few broken ribs. Lower down was also normal, until he caught sight of his left leg.

Rather, lack thereof.

In an instant, it was a like vice had been clamped around his skull, constricting his blood vessels and preventing him from breathing. The numbness slowly spread to the rest of his body. Asher could have simply been a granite sculpture of a man, such was the stillness of his limbs, the iciness coursing through his bloodstream, the heaviness of his heart. His vision began to swim, punctuated by black, fuzzy spots.

Alerted by both the pulse monitor on Asher's finger and the sounds of hyperventilating, a nurse rushed into his room.

"Oh, no," she muttered, quickly checking his patient information before calling for Vasily.

The only movement observable from Asher was the desperate heaving of his chest. Nothing else. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn't even twitch when his father came to his side, positioning himself over Asher with frantic worry in his eyes.

"My boy, my boy," he stuttered breathily. What with basically living, Vasily was beyond exhausted. 

He had essentially spent the last week at the hospital, only going home to shower. The days were grey and full of tension; Vasily was always on edge, staring at Asher's comatose form, asking a doctor for any updates, having to call relatives in Russia to calm himself down, but relapsing straight after and staring at his son again. 

The nights were cold and fearful, sleeping with his body stretched between the two lumpy armchairs, his mind running frantic with worst-case scenarios. He'd rub his nose and think of Ekaterina. Vasily always thought of her when he was scared. She'd always have a logical explanation as to why his fear was irrational. But if that didn't work — which was rare — she'd kiss him on the nose.

Now that Asher was awake, Vasily could finally breathe a sigh of relief. "Asher . . . How are you feeling?"

"W-what happened?" Asher sobbed viciously. "What happened to me?"

The nurse at Vasily's side, who had been administering a dose of morphine into Asher's IV, touched his forearm lightly, gesturing for him to let her explain.

"Asher, you were in an accident," she began with a smooth, sympathetic tone. "You were thrown off your motorcycle by another vehicle, and the tissue in your left leg was severely damaged. The doctor had to remove part of your leg. Unfortunately, it couldn't have been repaired. You have two cracked ribs, but they are on the way to healing. Your right leg also suffered abrasions and sprains, but will heal."

All he could do was shake his head. He couldn't fully process the words entering his ears. It was like when you repeat a word over and over until the meaning completely dissolves. Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. Comprehension was impossible. He could only feel. 

Vaguely, he registered Vasily pressing a tissue to his cheeks where there must have been tears dripping. He'd only lost a leg, but it somehow felt like his whole body had been ripped away. In its place was his soul, which was battered and bruised enough, left to expand forever without its mortal shell. Expanding forever. Asher's thoughts getting more frantic and disconnected.

How did this happen?

Why didn't Dad say no?

What will happen to my career?

What will happen to me?

Expanding forever. Until the threads holding him together were so tiny they may as well have been nothing. Asher may as well have been nothing.

". . . We'll talk more in the morning," the nurse said. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

Asher didn't reply. He still felt so vaporous. Powerless. A voice tethered to him brought him back to that suddenly grotesque hospital room.

"I'm so glad you're alright," Vasily sighed.

"I'm not alright."

That, Vasily realised, he could not contest. Soberly, he placed a sweaty palm on Asher's forehead. His eyelids sluggishly fell shut. He inhaled slowly, as if drawing strength from Asher's presence. His son was still here. That was the most important thing. And if he wasn't alright presently, Vasily knew he would be in the future. Asher would recover. Fight. Move on. As he had done since birth.

"You will be, my boy." Vasily took out his phone. "Kerrish contacted me after seeing it on the news. He's been waiting for a call from me. But I think he'd much rather talking to you."

Vasily dialled the number and left the room after handing Asher the phone. Kerrish picked up instantly.

"Hi, Mr. Delrov," he sounded breathless and panicked. So unlike the old Kerrish. Then again, Asher was now so unlike the old Asher. The carefree graduate enjoying his first summer out of high school all those years ago. One of those sunlit days had been the last time he'd seen Kerrish, before he left to globetrot and fuck exotic women. Last Asher heard, Kerrish was studying in Spain.

"It's Asher."

"Oh, my God. Thank fuck. You're alive!"

"Why wouldn't I be, Kerry?" Asher brought back that old high school nickname to add some levity to the situation. Even if there was none. Even if it was just putting lipstick on a pig.

"The news stations . . . they were all like "Young Motocross Star Crashes," and "What will become of MX rider Delrov after devastating crash?" All the announcements and articles I read were all so focused on your career, your past achievements, and the most they said was that you're in critical condition at Eastcliff."

"Well, I guess I'm not critical anymore. I feel fine," Asher assured. 

He didn't want to talk about his leg yet. Kerrish was on the verge of a meltdown as it was — not to mention his own mental state. Somewhere in the back of his head, a part of him knew the life-changing reality he'd stepped into. The rest of him would ignore the truth for as long as he could.

"That's such a relief, Asher. I called your Dad as he was leaving the house, and he knew as much as I did. It's so good to hear your voice."

The sheer, tremulous emotion in Kerrish's voice made Asher tear up. His friend must have been scared out of his wits. Asher started to comprehend the severity of the accident he'd been in. 

For the first time in his life, Asher felt lucky.

Throughout the grief of his imperfecta, Ekaterina, and emigrating Asher had never felt lucky. He was always the weird kid who couldn't play sports. Or the sad boy who had to be coddled. Or the foreigner who didn't speak English. He'd felt isolated and unlucky for a solid portion of his life, before he found his friends and passion.

But he was incredibly lucky.

He'd been so close to death. Had he been left longer or treated later, he might never have heard Kerrish's voice again.

He'd survived.

He'd fucking survived.