Shredded

                                    

                                          
There were white bandages wrapped tightly around his legs, and patches over the stab wound in his stomach, as well as bandages covering the slices on his chest. In total, he'd accumulated over seventy stitches, thirteen bruises on his arms and back, lost enough blood that he'd needed a transfusion, and had broken his pinky finger on his left hand. Now he was laying on a stiff green cot with an IV needle stuck in his arm, dripping some sort of clear fluid into his vein. That stupid cat. Who knew a cat could cause so much trouble? I hope I'll be able to partake in the battle.
The room was almost entirely empty. It had formerly been a small meeting room but was now a makeshift recovery room. There were no curtains, no rugs, no sheets, no hangings, nothing but the cot and the IV stand and cold pale light bouncing off the walls.
There was a faint knock at the door, and a slender woman with choppy blond hair entered the room. She was of average height, boyishly tapered, had a small nose, small cheekbones, small everything. She looked to be somewhere in her thirties, had faint smudgy looking scars on her bare shoulders, and definition in her arms.
The woman wore an army green tank top, the straps two fingers wide, tucked into a pair of black jeans that came up past her hips held in place by a black belt. She also had a silver chain around her neck, and what appeared to be a set of dog tags hanging from it.
"Look what the cat dragged in." She said. Her voice was strong but had the faintest of raspiness to it. Like she'd hurt her vocal cords a long time ago, and recovered but never really got the fullest extent of her voice back. "You feelin' alright?"
Mark pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall and nodded.
"Somehow I feel no pain." He replied.
"That'd be the morphine, doin' its job." She responded. "At least you can sit up now. The first time you woke up you barely knew your name. Do you remember anything from then?"
"I remember you telling me how many stitches I ended up vith. But I don't remember you. Vat's your name?" He inquired.
"Name's Danielle. I'm Guy's fiancee. I'm sure he's talked about me." She said.
"I think he mentioned you. You a doctor or something or vat?"
"I was a trauma nurse for four years, United States Army."
"I should have guessed the Army. You certainly have ze look." He sighed.
She offered a pleasant smile and went to check the IV bag. Removed it from the stand. Took the needle out of his arm and set it on the windowsill.
"The morphine's gonna wear off in about an hour or so. The pain will hit then, tiger claws dig deep. You're free to go now, try not to walk around too much." She told him.
He put his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Felt the tightness of the stitches pulling on his skin. The burning in his legs that for the moment seemed miles away. He nodded his thanks to her and cautiously shuffled to the door.
"Vere are ze others?" He asked, putting a hand to the door frame.
"Downstairs in the break room. You might want to put on a shirt." She replied.
She reached under the cot, pulled out a small plastic bin. Took the lid off. Inside were a bunch of neatly folded army surplus tank tops. Ones like hers. She picked one up and tossed it at him.
He plucked it from the air and pulled it over his head. It felt strange to wear a tank top. On his off days, he usually wore bright, flashy things like tie-dye. Plain green was something he never wore. I probably look dreadful. I must find a mirror!
"Zank you. I'll be off now."