Only eight screws to go.
The next two were hell.
The one after that made him redefine what hell actually was. Tears streaking down his cheeks, biting the blanket so hard his jaw ached and his gums bled, Donaldson fumbled with the screw holding the top bit of his shattered ulna in place. But the screw was lodged in the bone so tightly that Donaldson felt his ulna twist as he turned it. He could even see the bone wiggle underneath the skin, as if a mouse had burrowed into his flesh and was trying to escape.
Donaldson’s hand shook so badly he couldn’t get a firm grip. His face felt cold and clammy, and he recognized he was going into shock-something he’d witnessed many times in his victims.
Fight it. This is your only chance.
Donaldson turned the screw.
The broken bit of ulna turned sideways, almost perpendicular to his forearm.
He shuddered in agony, and then passed out.
Donaldson awoke trembling and confused, his face so drenched with sweat he looked like he’d just stepped out of the shower. He cast a frantic glance at the cop-still sleeping-and then the clock.
2:20.
Only ten minutes until Nurse Winslow made her rounds.
He had to hurry. There were still five screws remaining.
Donaldson hadn’t cried since he was a child. He remembered being ten years old, his father’s belt drawing blood on his ass, his thighs, his back; whipping him for killing a neighbor’s dog, whipping him so hard and for so long that Donaldson missed an entire week of school.
That was the last time he’d ever cried. His father had whipped him many times since, but Donaldson had vowed to himself he’d never show weakness again. He’d internalize the pain. Keep it inside.
It was a vow he’d kept for over forty years. A vow he now broke as sobs shook his body and mucus streamed down over his blubbering lips.
The screw seemed to twitch with his pulse, vibrating just a bit, the bone beneath the skin so obviously out of place it was almost funny.
Donaldson tried not to hesitate. But twisting was unbearable. It would cause him to pass out again.
So he took a deep, stuttering breath, gripped the screw head, and yanked.
The screw popped free, tearing out a thread of flesh, the blood spurting rather than oozing.
Wailing like a baby now, Donaldson attacked the next screw. The pain became the only thing he knew. His entire world. He twisted and pulled and pried at his tortured arm, blinded by tears, thrashing his legs and feeling the skin grafts tear, shaking his head side to side and actually bending the metal brace that held his neck immobile.
It was coming… coming…
Did it!
Donaldson wiped his blurry eyes.
Three screws left.
It was worse than a tooth ache. Worse than being kicked in the balls. Worse than his father’s belt. Worse than being dragged behind the car.
Just two more.
Both arms shook so badly now that Donaldson couldn’t get a grip on the screw head. He had to keep wiping his slippery, blood-soaked fingers on the blanket. When they finally locked on, he got confused and twisted the wrong way once again, tightening the screw, ratcheting up his suffering to the nth degree, causing his eyes to roll up into his head. He used the pain, knowing it couldn’t get any worse, turning it quickly and spitting out the blanket and vomiting bile as the screw mercifully pulled free.
Okay…
Just one more…
The last one…
This was the longest of them all, pinned into his wrist.
Deep.
So deep.
Too deep.
Can’t do it.
Can’t fucking do it.
The very thought of touching that final screw, let alone manipulating it, made Donaldson gag again. He needed morphine. He needed it more than he ever needed anything in his life. He could call the nurse, and she’d give him a shot. It would knock him out. He wouldn’t hurt anymore.
But then they’d reset the screws.
Donaldson knew he couldn’t bear that.
He closed his eyes, lips pursed together as he sobbed, and in his pain-delirium he was visited by an angel.
In Donaldson’s mind, the angel had big, white wings. A glowing halo. A beatific smile.
And pink Crocs.
“Looks like I win, old man,” said the Lucy Angel.
Donaldson’s eyes flipped open.
No. You’re not going to win, little girl.
He attacked the last screw with a hatred so fierce he could handle the agony.
It took twelve complete turns to get the son of a bitch out.
And then Donaldson was done.
His arm no longer looked human. More like a giant, pulsing earthworm, gooey with blood, the skin purple with hematomas. He carefully pulled off the brace, threading his ruined appendage through it, laughing as he hefted its weight. Solid surgical steel, at least five pounds of metal, screws protruding out like spikes on a medieval war mace.