One Day Soon (One Day Soon, #1)(6)

They didn’t know his name. Only the sordid details of his obviously tragic life. The man had been thrown away. Discarded. Forgotten.

I felt my anger flare and my stomach knotted uncomfortably.

“Are you running blood tests to check for STDs?” I asked.

“Of course. We should get the labs back soon,” Jill answered.

I handed her the patient’s chart and turned towards the closed door. “Well let me go see Mr. Mysterious.”

Jill put a hand on my arm. “Just be prepared, he looks really bad.”

I didn’t need the warning. I had seen some awful things in my seven years at the hospital. I was positive I could handle it.

“I’ll be fine.” I twisted the doorknob and walked inside, clutching the client file to my chest.

“But you can tell he’s a looker. Such a waste,” Jill muttered.

Don’t smack the nurse. That would be bad, Imogen, I reminded myself. Instead of commenting, I shut the door in Jill’s face.

The room smelled sterile. Too clean. Even though I was used to the hospital stench of cleaning products and sickness, it was anything but pleasant.

The constant drone of the beeping monitors filled the silence. I barely noticed them. I walked towards the pale blue curtain that separated the patient from the rest of the room.

I was already thinking of possible line items to include in the patient’s service plan. I was in social work mode. I plastered a professional smile on my face and griped the curtain in my hand, giving it a hearty yank. The body on the bed didn’t move. Not a twitch or a muscle spasm. I let the smile drop now that it seemed unnecessary.

I focused first on his feet. I slowly made my way up the length of his obviously thin body. His hands rested on either side of him and were all skin and bones. Long, knobby fingers. Knuckles raw and scabbed over. He appeared almost emaciated. Finally my eyes settled on a very battered and swollen face.

Jill hadn’t been lying. The man was hardly recognizable as a person. His mouth was puffy and split. His right cheek was black, blue, and yellow from the marrow bruising, and his head was covered in stark white bandages.

His eyes were of course closed, but I got the impression of long, thick lashes on abused skin.

How would the police ever be able to identify him looking as he did? No one would be able to tell who he was. He barely looked human.

“You poor man,” I murmured, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed and sitting down.

I stared long and hard at his beaten face. “What happened to you?” I whispered knowing he wouldn’t answer me.

I lifted my pen and started to fill out the social work assessment sheet that I had brought with me. Until he woke up, I wouldn’t be able to do much for him. I needed his history. His story.

I needed his name.

He had been found underneath Seventh Street Bridge.

My throat felt uncomfortably tight and my hands trembled so badly it made holding the pen almost impossible.

Seventh Street Bridge…

Would time ever erase the impact of those memories?

It was all too easy to let my mind wander to the boy I had met under that bridge years ago. When the sky was red and tears dried on my cheeks.

The boy with black hair and wild, green eyes.

“I won’t leave you, Imi, not ever. You and me, we’re a definite. I don’t have anything if I don’t have you. You have to believe that.”

I had believed him with every piece of my trusting teenage heart.

But he had left me. And it had been for the best.

At least that’s what I had spent a long time trying to convince myself. Even if in my heart it felt like a lie.

I pressed my palms against my legs, forcing the tremors to stop. Deep breaths. Calm and cool. Remembering him elicited strong physical reactions.

Every single time.

“Let’s find out a little more about you,” I said under my breath, turning my attention back to the unidentified man in front of me.

I leaned in closer, trying to find any discernable feature that would help in identifying him. A birthmark. A scar.

A tattoo.

The color red caught my eye. On the side of his neck. Just below the hairline.

My heart tripped over itself in my chest. I felt sick. So sick.

Don’t be silly, Imogen. A thousand people must have red tattoos on the side of their neck. I’m sure it’s nothing unique. Nothing special.

So why was I close to freaking out?

I glanced behind me to make sure that I was still alone before I carefully pulled the hospital gown aside, exposing slightly jaundiced skin. When I saw the crude drawing on his neck I had to grip the side of the bed for support.

“It can’t be,” I whispered.

I touched the red tattoo on his neck and smiled.

Wild green eyes. He sucked me under and he held me there. He kissed me harder, branding me his. “You’re my happy life, Imi.”

I was cold. I was hungry. I hadn’t changed my clothes in months and I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept all the way through the night, but that didn’t matter.

“I love you, Yossarian Frazier.” He smiled.

Yossarian. My Yoss.

My happy life.

“Yoss.” His name was razorblades on my tongue. In my mouth.

He didn’t answer. His eyes remained closed.

I hadn’t recognized him underneath the bandages. Beneath the bruises.