Disclaimer: Pokemon never will and never has belonged to me, but instead to it's rightful owners 4Kids Entertainment, Nintendo, Game Freak, so on and so forth.
A/N: I received the idea of this fic from the story of Marla Hanson (you can read what it was at http://www.greatertalent.com/biography.php?id=191) and I suggest you do, because its very interesting and touching. This story isn't a complete copy of the reality, I just used a similar theme and I hope no one minds or takes offence. If you have a problem, feel free to contact me. I simply wanted to have a go at writing such a story myself – especially after I saw the movie that had been based on Ms. Hanson's tragedy.
Slashed
Chapter Two – Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned
By the time, the police arrived at Misty's flat Rudy had scooted. Misty told her story to Officer Jenny in fragments broken by barely stifled sobs. She was quickly wheeled off to the Cerulean City hospital where she met with Tracey. Forced to narrate her tale once more, Misty couldn't keep back the tears this time and sobbed openly. Thankfully, the bleeding had ebbed away by now.
Before long, she was ushered into the ER so one of the surgeons could take a look at her.
“Miss. Waterflower,” he said gently.
“Yes,” she mumbled.
“You've cut your face up quite badly,” he explained, “And you'll have to undergo reconstructive surgery to get you back to normal. It's quite severe so I suppose 'normal' isn't the right word there. We'll stitch you back up and try to make it as unnoticeable as possible but there's only a certain amount we can do, I'm afraid.”
“Thank you,” Misty responded, unable to think of anything else to say as she lay there in the sickly clean white bed.
“You're handling this very well,” the doctor assured her, “Yes, very well...Er, I've arranged the surgery to take place tomorrow round elevenish. It's quite long and arduous you see. You'll have to stay in the hospital till then and for 24 hours after the operation so we can ensure everything is alright. I take it, that's okay with you?”
“Yeah,” Misty answered blankly.
“Good, good,” the doctor said, “We'll move you up to the patient's ward where you can get some sleep. Unless you want some dinner?”
“I'm not hungry,” Misty replied.
“Alright,” the doctor smiled, “Good night, Miss. Waterflower.”
“Goodnight.”
Misty was taken to the north wing of the hospital where her sleeping chambers were. She was lucky to find she had a room – equipped with a television set and en suite shower room – all to herself. Thanking the nurse who had brought her there Misty changed into one of the hospital gowns and plopped down in bed even though it was much too early for her to try and sleep.
She switched on the channels and gawked uselessly at a documentary on Mareep for two hours. Bored out of her skull, she turned it off and lay back in her bed trying to push the day's events out of her head.
It didn't work very well and for hours the groggy Waterflower couldn't get any sleep as she relived those nightmarish hours in her head.
'Tomorrow,' her inner voice said, 'Tomorrow, and we'll think everything over. Get some shut-eye for now.'
Eventually, fatigue overcame the redhead and she dropped off into an uneasy slumber filled with unanswered questions.
*****
As Misty woke the next morning, beads of sweat clutching to her face, she heard the sorrowful singing of a Pidgey some distance off.
“My windows are soundproof,” she thought, “How can I be hearing a Pidgey?”
At first she could not remember what had happened and lay there, trying to grasp what exactly she was doing in a hospital.
Then she spoke and a searing pain spread through her face. Yesterday hit her at full blast.
“Mew save me,” she thought aloud as she dragged herself out of bed.
She showered in her bathroom (which for all its fancy name was like something out of a run-down motel) and got dressed to sample some breakfast. A nurse came round a little later with a tray full of food which Misty realized was a choice of breakfasts.
She was reminded of stewardesses in planes.
After taking her pick, Misty polished off her food when she heard a knock at her door.
She opened it – still finding it too painful to speak – and saw Tracey. Behind him, stood a cluster of people holding expensive camera equipment and mikes. Misty's eyes widened to the size of cup saucers.
“Hey, Misty,” Tracey said, “The doctor sent me up with all these people. They're the press and they want to see you.”
“The press?” Misty gasped, “Me?”
She was not exactly all that flattered.
“Trace,” she groaned, “I've an hour till my surgery which is going to take ages and I probably won't be able to speak for the rest of the day with a hundred or so stitches in my face. Can't they come back tomorrow?”
Tracey shrugged before turning around.
“Hey, guys, clear off!”
No one listened and Misty stepped forward to personally tell them to buzz off. Abruptly, a thousand and one flashes went off in her face – completely blinding her.
She was immensely glad to hear the voice of her surgeon (Dr. Jenkins) cutting through the sudden clicking of photos.
“Excuse me,” he simpered, “But this is a hospital. This is no way to behave in a hospital. If you have business with someone keep it private please. However it seems my patient does not want to see you right now but has clearly stated you can come back tomorrow. I'm sure your editors wouldn't mind that too much.”
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse much to Misty's relief and she thanked Dr. Jenkins. Once everyone had left, she dragged Tracey into her room before locking the door behind him.
They both sat down on her lumpy bed and Tracey handed her a 'Get Well Soon' card hidden in a box of chocolate truffles.
“Thanks, Tracey,” Misty whispered.
“No problem,” he replied, “How are you feeling?”
Misty didn't reply for a few awkward moments.
“Worried. Shocked. Scared.”
“Scared?”
“Of the operation. I've never been a big fan of needles.”
Tracey chuckled and ruffled her hair in a brotherly manner.
“Don't worry, once it's done you can get out of here and forget Rudi and the needles for good.”
Misty raised an eyebrow then winced as a shot of pain jolted through her.
“Forget Rudi?”
“Yeah,” Tracey stated, “Don't tell me you're going to go back to him.”
“Of course not,” Misty answered, “But I was going to take this up with the court.”
“What?” Tracey exclaimed, “The court? As in the Supreme Court of Kanto? You want to have a trial?”
Of course,” Misty replied, “Did you think I was just going to let Rudy walk away?”
“Well,” Tracey blanched, “But Misty. You'll need a lawyer. How are you going to afford one of them?”
“Look, Trace,” his friend responded, “I can borrow some money from my sisters, okay? I don't care what it costs, alright? I'm this close to killing Rudi right now and the only thing that's going to stop me from murdering him is if I can see him behind bars.”
“But Mist,” Tracey pointed out, “What if the jury don't find him guilty?”
“They will,” Misty promised, “Even if it means I need to blackmail, torture and taunt each and everyone of them. I'm going to make sure Rudi gets what he deserves.”
Abruptly, her eyes closed as she drifted away in a daydream.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Misty quoted a line from 'The Mourning Bride'.
“Do you know any lawyers, Misty?” Tracey asked, snapping her out of her reverie.
“Pardon? No!” Misty cried, “I don't.”
“I think we should start looking,” Tracey declared, “It's quite tough to find one. Not only do you need to find a lawyer but someone who works in the field you're categorized under.”
“Murder?” Misty suggested.
“You're not dead, dimwit,” Tracey replied, “Its most likely you'll be under accidents.”
“But it wasn't an accident,” Misty protested, “He did it on purpose.”
“Yeah, okay,” Tracey sighed, “Let's just look, okay?”
“Hmph,” Misty replied.
The pair spent the next half an hour searching on Tracey's laptop for lawyers. After drawing up a list of six Misty printed out a sheet with their details on it (the receptionist had allowed them to use her printer) and hid it under her bed.
“That was quick,” Tracey stretched, “And really interesting. I never knew there were so many things a person could sue for.”
“Whatever, Trace,” Misty scoffed. She was trying to ignore the anxious feeling that was bouncing up and down in her stomach. In ten minutes, her operation would be taking place.
The pair sifted through a few more sites in that time, Tracey looking for something to make Misty laugh. It was the longest ten minutes in the world for her and the red head couldn't stop fidgeting.
Minutes before she snapped, a friendly-looking nurse knocked on her door.
“Miss. Waterflower?” she asked.
“That's me,” Misty stood up.
“Hello, dear,” the nurse replied, “Dr. Jenkins is ready for you now. I'm here to take you to the OT.”
“Okay,” Misty murmured, feeling sick, “Bye Trace. You better be here tomorrow.”
“Sure thing, Mist,” Tracey winked at her, “Good luck.”
With that he exited, leaving a very apprehensive young Waterflower behind.
*****
Seven hours later, Misty staggered out of the OT followed by Dr. Jenkins.
“You'll be ready to go in a day, Misty,” he explained, “Everything should be okay, by then.”
She nodded, the stitches which had been woven into her face making it too painful to speak.
“You've missed lunch but I'll doubt you were very hungry anyway,” the surgeon went on, “You'll get your dinner then but you might find it quite hard to eat or speak for the rest of the day.”
Misty nodded again, digesting this all very slowly.
“So take it easy, alright?” The doctor fixed her with an understanding look, “You've done real well, so far so keep it up, okay? Oh, and just a tip, don't let the press bother you too much. If they're getting out of hand, give me a shout and I'll shoo them for you.”
Winking at her, he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction. A nurse – male, this time – lead Misty back to her room.
She slipped inside feeling nervous. She had specifically asked Mr. Jenkins not to bring in any mirrors to show her what she looked like now. She wanted to do it herself without anyone else around. She wanted to be alone when she saw the spectacle that would serve as 'her face' from this day onwards. Or at least, the remnants of her scars.
'Oh man,' she thought as she twisted her bathroom door knob, 'Time to face the music.'
*****
A/N: Hmmm, can I call that a cliffhanger? I don't know. Anyway, R & R please!
My email is lethal.shinken@gmail.com