I was not a good patient. The bandage was bothering me, so in my sleep, I would rip it off, and then somewhere in between, I would take the stitches out a little bit as they would sting and tingle really badly.
I woke up in the med bay upstairs, feverish, confused, and with pressure in my bladder. I felt so fucking sick. I ripped the cannula off without even thinking properly. My fingers were working on their own with the stitches and bandages.
The fever didn't go down immediately, and I wanted to go to the toilet. I will not pee myself. I sat up and got myself stable enough to go to the toilet. And I got a piss, well I can walk, and it's not that far to my bedroom. I want to be safe there.
I set off walking in the middle of the night, my stomach dripping blood and finally dizzy really badly. Well, I crawled the rest of the way in the fever, got to my bedroom, shut the door but not the lock, got into my bed, and wrapped myself in the blankets to warm up.
Damon woke up in the morning, the soft glow filtering through the hallway. As he made his way to check on Mimi, he noticed the faint scent of blood lingering in the air. The blood spots on the walls caught his attention only when he entered the medbay and flicked on the bright lights. He sighed. He had moved her here yesterday afternoon when antibiotics had been dripped, and Mimi was in a deep sleep. Not anymore.
His gaze traced the trail of blood, starting from the bed where Mimi had been, her tightly knotted cannula and tubing revealing her restless state. The spatter continued, marking the path she had taken as she tore the cannula off, leading to the bathroom and finally to the door. With a heavy sigh, Damon entered the bathroom, the cold tiles chilling his bare feet. He assessed the situation, his mind already strategizing the steps ahead. It was empty. There were some bloody fingerprints on surfaces and on toilet paper, too.
Resolute, Damon set to work, meticulously arranging the drip bags, fever medicine, cleaning supplies, and a fresh cannula. Carefully, he drew a potent sedative into the syringe, his fingers steadying the instrument. He knew it was crucial to keep Mimi calm so her panic of being treated in minimal. Having already cleaned the bed and prepared another one for her, Damon felt a sense of readiness, determined to support her until the fever subsided. He knew that she would have a raging fever, so there was 5 ml of oral fever medicine reserved already.
On the table, the stitching materials and cleaning supplies awaited their purpose, their presence a reminder of the infection Mimi had suffered. As Damon moved forward, the sight of bloodstains on the floor became clear, guiding his path toward Mimi's downstairs bedroom. Though he knew she had fucked with Adam in that room, and they shared with Adam many safe and wonderful memories in this space, he had never fucked with Mimi here. Perhaps, one day, they could create fresh memories in this room as well. It seemed to be Mimi's sanctuary, a place of solace during times of sickness and recovery.
Damon opened the door and approached the bedside. He was silent as he gently uncovered his wife, exposing just enough of her body to administer the injection directly into her heart. The stillness of her limp form made the task easier. His touch was gentle, yet purposeful. Mimi sighed once and fell asleep for a moment.
I woke up when Damon silently entered my room, his footsteps barely audible against the soft, luxurious rugs that adorned the floor of my room. As he dug me out from under the covers, the sound of calm breathing and the scent of passionfruit filled my senses. Without warning, he forcefully jabbed another syringe into my heart, causing a sharp pain, and soon, my mind went all fuzzy.
The room spun, and my head became fuzzy and disoriented. My husband then continued to uncover me from the sea of blankets that I had wrapped around me. Samuel glanced at us from the door, his eyes filled with determination and amusement as he spoke. "Oh, lively lady, I see. Well, you fix her up. I'll take care of this bed."
Damon grunted in response, his actions speaking louder than words as he scooped me up and carried me to the medbay. He gently placed me on the cold, sterile bed, causing a shiver to run down my spine. Before I could react, he forcefully administered the damn fever medicine, the bitter taste flooding my mouth as I swallowed. It tasted as awful as always, pure vinegar and other nasty stuff. My mind was fuzzy, so panic didn't really hit me as hard as it could have.
My dear husband then removed all my clothes and continued to treat my open wounds, those parts where there were no stitches anymore. My body lay exposed, stripped of all clothing. Damon meticulously cleaned my belly, his touch both clinical and tender but sure. Unlike before, this time, he left the stitches intact, not taking them out, just cleaning them and then carrying on the same as last time. He diligently cleaned, drained that weird liquid into my wound, taped it shut so that the liquid stayed in, then anesthetized, and finally stitched as if piecing me back together.
As the fever medicine took effect, I became a weak and helpless creature, my strength slowly draining away. Sweat poured again out of me like a torrent or flood. I despised this feeling of vulnerability, but I had no control when the fever took hold. I was forced to be patient, relying on others for my own well-being.
Damon shifted his attention to his wife, now focused on washing away the remnants of her fever. The room was filled with the scent of antiseptic, mixing with the faint aroma of sweat. The fever had only slightly subsided, hovering at 48.1 degrees Celsius, relentlessly tormenting Mimi's condition. It was coming down as Mimi sweat.
Fever burned Mimi's condition, drugs, and also Damon's patience to treat his wife pretty fast. Determined to combat her illness, Damon resorted to Samuel's nutritional concentrates, dripping them into her system. The feeding button was not an option because of the infection, and the nasogastric tube posed too much of a risk if Mimi were to remove it herself.
Improving her condition seemed impossible with the intestinal puree, especially when she refused to drink it. Damon didn't always have the heart to force her when he understood her helplessness and the depth of her suffering by their true soulmate bond. He did his best to make her ordeal as bearable as possible.
He knew Mimi had many problems, and he tried to be patient, tried to be gentle, and caring and not show her his frustrations or tiredness. It was difficult for Damon when Mimi was this sick and active.
He didn't keep her in her own bedroom because he wanted to preserve the security of that place, and she didn't need to feel cannulated there, weak in the IV. besides, there were supplies nearby for whatever he needed. When Damon had finished washing his wife, he put the IV bags in place and lay down next to her again, waiting for the sedative in the IV bags to do its work and for her to fall back into a deep sleep. He wanted to beat this infection.
When I woke up, the same thing happened again. Somehow, the medbay was always empty at that moment, and I didn't even think about pressing the button. As I lingered, I disconnected the cannula, tied the tubes, and ripped off the bandage, feeling the disgusting pinch and sting of the stitches that were ready to be plucked out. Multiple times, I made it as far as the toilet, but with sheer determination, I always returned to my room. My safety.
My fever burned off the effects of the medication quickly, and I didn't stay asleep for long. Whenever the fever spiked, it made me keep myself moving. I have to give credit to Damon. He really outdid himself. I lost count of how many times he carried me from my bed back to the medbay. Frustrated, he eventually locked the door to my room, preventing me from entering. He would stay in the medbay, turning it into our new game.
The name of the game was simple. Whenever I went to the bathroom to take a piss or even take a dump, I got back in bed, and I strangely felt the need to conceal the fact that I had been moving. I carefully placed the knotted cannula against my neck, hidden slightly under the blanket. The blanket also concealed the bloodstains on my nightie, and I pretended to be sleepy.
But my attempt failed when there was blood on the floor as I crawled into bed. Damon could always smell if I was bleeding. He would sigh, adjust the drip tray, insert the tubes, inject the damn sedative, and always check my heart. Then came the same routine - fever medicine, stitches, washing, and finally, he would lie beside me, keep me in his arms, trying to offer some safety until I fell asleep. It took an unexpectedly long time because my anxiety persisted, despite Damon's patience. He understood he couldn't make it disappear, even with his telepathy, as it was deeply ingrained in me. He kept nightmares away.
As the infection persisted and I continued to lose weight, my strength waned, often leaving me collapsed on the floor when I couldn't push forward any longer. But that didn't stop me at all when I had the urge to move. Even when I was so exhausted that Damon's new role was to lift me from the floor to the bed, I still made frequent trips to the bathroom. Damon spent most of his time in the medbay, attending to my needs. He was trying really hard to keep himself in line, not to snap at me or yell at me. I could see it from his expression quite a few times.
He carried me to the bathroom quite a few times when I woke up, but since he had to eat, shower, and sleep at least once in a while, I had these opportunities to move around on my own.
He said after about the tenth time, "Mimi, one more time, and I'll put you in chains, you understand?"
He was exhausted, and he had really done everything he could to keep me in bed, but now he was running out of strength, patience, and means, too. I looked at my husband as he picked me up off the floor again. I tried to look at my husband innocently. I was just a powerless heap.
A voice from the doorway said, "I would have put that creature in chains by now. Damon, you are too gentle."
Adam had come.
I said to Adam, "That one wants me to pee my pants. I'm a clean girl, and I pee in the toilet. I don't dirty my bed."
My voice was weak and shaky as my fever was rising once again.
Adam laughed and said, " Yes, you are, and I'm sure you won't pee, but if you can't get to the toilet..."
I had made it this far.
I said, "I'll get my business done. It's the return journey that takes my strength. The bed should be closer to the toilet. "
Adam laughed again, looking at Damon's genuinely desperate expression. Adam walked closer after Damon had drugged me again and pushed the fever medicine. Adam could see by the look on Damon's face that he was as stretched to the limit as he could be.
The stitches had been there, or the strongest stitches had been there for five days, but there weren't many. All the other stitches were more recent. I was waiting to see when my skin would close up to get those stupid stitches out. I was naked when Damon collected his supplies and cleaned my skin again.
He said, "Look, baby, see how your skin is going together on these older stitches. If you had left them alone, this one would be closed."
I said nothing, as I was too drugged to talk anymore.
Adam observed with a sense of amusement as Damon let out a weary sigh, his stitching supplies in hand. The room was filled with the scent of antiseptic and the faint sound of blood analyzers as Damon took another batch of blood tests from Mimi. Trying to see if the infection was going away.
Adam walked to the cabinet, opened it, and took something from there. He came back and handed the thing to Damon. With a mischievous grin, Damon received a tube from Adam and squeezed it gently, the sound of glue oozing out echoing in the room.
Damon carefully applied the glue along the edges of the wound, the cool sensation sending a shiver down my spine. After a moment, he firmly pressed the wound closed, the glue sealing it shut. Irritation surged through me as I realized what he was doing. My holy asshole, he had clued my wound shut. I managed to look deeply irritated as Mr. Salvatore continued to play with that damn glue.
He continued his work, spreading the glue generously, ensuring every inch was covered. Finally, he placed a snug bandage over the wound, securing it in place with more glue. "There you go, baby, now it is pretty much safer for those stitches, lets see if we can now get this wound healed." His voice was cool, but there was a sense of victory in it. Adam smirked at me.
As I glanced down at my stitched wound, a sense of discomfort washed over me. Damon took it a step further, gluing the tips of the stitches to my skin, making it nearly impossible for me to remove them. Then, unexpectedly, he administered something that sent me into a deep slumber. And into my heart again. I felt some sort of distant pain in my fingertips.
I awoke in a state of sweating like a pig, my senses overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptic and the lingering metallic taste in my mouth. As I looked down at my hands, I realized my fingernails were missing.
Sense of what the fuck coursed through me, only to be met with Damon's words, "Your nails will return once your wound has healed; they will regrow with my dentifrices." Exhausted and drenched in sweat, I couldn't find the energy to say anything back. There was some sort of dressing on my fingertips, and they were sore.
Damon now washed me with Adam, and together, they put me in bed. Damon cleaned up all the debris and put the drip on. He then came with the syringe finally, put it in the cannula, and pushed the plunger. My consciousness immediately shut down.
The fever and infection raged on relentlessly for another week, their grip on me unyielding. This insidious bug had me crawling on the floor, exacerbating my condition. The stitches remained undisturbed, but the fever rendered me restless, causing me to spend quite a time crawling onto the floor, either going to the bathroom or getting out of there.
Adam, now my second caregiver, diligently washed me multiple times before Damon entered the room, bearing medicine and sharing his expertise with Adam, ensuring that he could tend to me independently if necessary. I played the role of a pitiful patient, feigning innocence and sweetness, knowing that my innocent facade would prevent them from expressing anger toward me.
It was an easy way not to get yelled at, just look really innocent big eyes with a weak expression, and express my gratitude with multiple words every time some of my men came to pick me up.
The men hoisted me up, attended to my needs, and even made me drink three liters of visceral puree, which somehow maintained my vitality, albeit to a limited extent. Damon mostly did it, and I had to call mimosa forth to drink it because I just couldn't; it was not for me.
Perhaps the presence of three men watching over me, including Samuel, whom they had enlisted for help, curbed my movements slightly. However, Samuel's quick departures to the clinics hinted otherwise. Eventually, even Adam got fed up with my antics of crawling onto the floor, prompting Damon to retrieve a potent anesthetic from the medicine cabinet.
Approaching me, he declared, "Now, baby, this charade ends here. This will put you into a deep sleep until the infection subsides. From now on, we won't lift you from the floor, and remember, when you wake up, you won't go shower or take a bath. Understood?" Before I could respond, he depressed the plunger, plunging me into a void of darkness.
Damon briefly glanced at Mimi, then adjusted the drip rate to her needs, prepared multiple bags for future use, and taught Adam to change the bag. Exhaustion consumed him, both mentally and physically, as maintaining Mimi's well-being paled compared to this exhausting circus. Damon fervently hoped that once this infection was conquered, there would be a reprieve from such torment for years to come, as he could no longer tolerate this relentless game. Mimi was really the worst patient that he had ever seen in his immortal life.