Emmy looked ghastly, ghostly, and everything in between. She breathed through tubes, and she fed herself through tubes, and although she had no control over this, they were her single chance of survival.
Her eyelids were shut, her skin pale and sticky—she looked as if she had aged twenty years in a matter of two weeks. The car crash had left her in a coma, perhaps leaving her paralyzed for the entirety of her poor life—if she ever woke up, that is.
Mark, Emmy’s dear companion and lover, was sitting in a chair beside her. Or rather, he had his butt in the chair, but his upper body strewn across Emmy and her hospital bed.
His eyes were closed. He was sleeping as well.
Emmy had a small amount of friends, and very few living relatives. Despite the lack of a large family, there was an abundance of flowers sitting in front of her bed. One bouquet was from Margaret, her best and only childhood friend; another one from her widowed mother; and a third one from Mark. Poor Mark; he sat by her side since the crash happened.
Two weeks prior, before the accident, the sweet young couple lived normally, as would any normal couple living in rural Virginia. Accidents were rare in their parts, which baffled Emmy’s family and friends. But one thing was for sure; the idiot who crashed her car was new to the town.
It was a hit and run, which was strange, because the suspect literally did run away. The fellow left footprints leading into a forest, which the policemen quickly followed into a clearing. That was where the footsteps stopped abruptly, leaving more bafflement.
They explained this to Mark and Emmy’s family, which baffled them even more. There was no evidence, save for the measly footsteps, nor any suspects, for the car had no license or information. The DNA tests came back with no confirmed results.
The only evidence would be found within Emmy, only Emmy didn’t know this; she was in a coma.

---

In her head she could see bright lights, those that belonged to the old Maverick. She saw the lights in her rearview mirror, but she could not register the immense speed at which it was traveling. She felt a hard slam, and before she could comprehend what had happened, she was unconscious, her skull bleeding from the impact of the steering wheel. Air bags did not exist in her Impala.
Dark, cold, freezing, something, a strange warmth inside of her. It was all she remembered. She shifted in her hospital bed. Another random spasm, the doctor thought.
More bright lights. They were even brighter, they became blinding.
“Oh, dear God! Doctor! Doctor! She’s awake! Oh my God, Emmy!” a voice rang out from beside her. “Mark! Hey, Mark, wake up!”
Emmy heard a strange, gargled moan. Then came a laugh. “Emmy forgot how to speak, eh?” said a male voice.
She realized the gargled moan came from her own throat, and she tried her hardest to retort with recognizable words.
“Leave her be, Mr. Dowel.” The doctor shoved Mark aside. “She hasn’t regained full consciousness yet. Emmy, can you understand me?”
Emmy made more muffled noises, attempting again to speak, but instead gave up and nodded her head, yes. She felt something warm and fleshy tighten around her shoulders, and a breathy whisper in her ear, “My God, Emmy, I’m so glad you’re awake. I was worried sick about you. Well, I—I just don’t know what I’d do without you.” Something soft pressed against her forehead, and a soft smacking sound followed. “Margie,” Mark called out to Emmy’s best friend, his hands still clasping her shoulders. “Go call Brandy and Mrs. Thompson. Let them know the demon’s out of her.” He squeezed her tightly again, and she wrapped her arms weakly around her dear companion.

Some days passed, and Emmy made progress. Her speech returned, and so did her strength. She decided, while Mark and the rest were out, that she would try to walk again.
She stretched her arms a bit, and her legs felt somewhat odd, but she was willing to try. Ready to go, she pulled the bed covers off.
“OH MY GOD!” she squealed in complete shock. She dropped off of the bed, making a loud thud. Mark rushed in, rolling in a wheelchair. “Emmy, I head you scr—Oh, Emmy!” he rushed to her side to help her up. “I knew this was gonna happen. I’m so sorry, honey. So sorry.”
“Mark!” she pounded her fists on the floor. “Where are my legs!”
“Emmy, you were in a terrible crash.” He helped her sit up. “They had to be amputated.”
“What the hell, Mark! And you didn’t tell me this earlier? ‘Oh, look, she’s awake! She’s out of the coma! Emmy, I’m glad you’re all right!’” Emmy mocked. “What crap.”
Margaret stumbled into the room, crossing her arms, “Well, I’m glad to see Em is back.” She smiled smugly.
“Yeah, I’m back. I’m an amputee, Marge!” she yelled, as Mark carried her back onto the bed.
“Oh, right, I was going to mention that to you. I didn’t think you would find out the hard way.” Margie said, trying to sound as apologetic as possible.
“’Cause having your limbs removed happens every day, right?” Emmy cried.
Mark tucked her in again and hugged her tightly.
Emmy cried herself to sleep, as her companion slept by her side.