V

Everything is pitch black yet again, huge surprise. My face is an itching, burning, putrid mess. My hands fly up and I touch yards and yards of cotton bandages. I rip them off and suddenly everything is searing bright white.

"Your blindness," she explains, "is only temporary. We think the explosion made you hit your head, causing a minor blood clot around the part of the brain that helps you see." She's calming yet tactical. It's the voice of someone who is being nice, but only because her job makes her.

I feel a hand, warm and soft, on my arm. The touch is gentle and caring, belonging to the female voice I assume is my nurse. She rolls the bandages back around my head. The universe is black again. Hello, darkness.

There is uncertain, hesitant silence. "I'm afraid you've been in a coma, for a little over two weeks. It was nothing serious. We're assuming it was just a bad reaction to the drugs…"

The fuck, it's nothing serious! I bolted upright. I ached. Two weeks in a bed takes away a lot.

I could hear the nurse swallow. Obviously she had anticipated my reaction. "Twenty days. It's not like this hasn't happened before…"

She went on, citing facts and cases, scientific trivia, blah blah blah. The bullshit rolled off her tongue so well, I realize, because it was a scripted responses. She's dealt with so many of these kinds of cases. I probably don't even have a face, just a chart with numbers and prescriptions.

Where the fuck am I?

The nurse continues in her voice. She calmly explains that I am in the Children's Hospital of Minneapolis. My condition is stable, no worries, no problems, no internal bleeding, I might want to check out the gastroenterology ward while I'm here, it's all routine...

As she drabbled on, I fell back asleep, not knowing where I'd end up next.

...later…

I wake up and I can see. The bandages are gone and replaced by a fierce blend of texture, perspective, and form. Shapes are re-defined. Lines are clear. Light and color are both present. Order is restored to my body. I am invincible again. This is a beautiful feeling and for a minute I don't care about anything.

"Hey little Bash, are you alright?" Portman prompts from the sidelines.

Yeah, they're all here. Fit into my tiny hospital room, smashed around the bed and ogling down in that heart-heart-heart condition called love. Visiting hours do not apply to the Ducks.

Of course I'm alright. I can see again.

In careful preparation I wrap my fingers around the remote. I'm supposed to use it to call the nurse if I'm ever in need of assistance. Like maybe if I choke on that solid applesauce they serve.

Julie smiles. "So how do you feel?"

My throat is like sandpaper. When I open my mouth I expect dust to fly out.

On cue, Goldberg holds a Dixie cup up to my mouth. The water sloshes out the corners and dribbles down my chin. Connie follows up with a napkin. I give both of them a half-hearted nod.

"Grand," I say lifelessly. Holden Caulfield must have chased me in my dreams the other night.

"You've missed a lot of games," says Charlie, trying to cheer me up. Great. Hockey. Just what I want to be thinking of right now. Adam irritably pokes him in the ribs for me.

Fulton whispers something to Charlie that I'm guessing was along the lines of "he's in the freakin' hospital. Have some tacit for once, man."

That's when I notice there's one less Duck than there should be.

God flips a switch on inside my brain, but the connectors are jammed. Only some of it comes back. I can remember bits and pieces. I remember the library, I remember Luis, and I remember the blackout. But once the lights turned off, apparently so did my brain.

"What happened to Guy?" I ask, ignoring the acidic taste in the back of my mouth. "Where is he?"

The Ducks glance at each other, shuffling their feet. I'm more than just left out, I feel like I'm in a completely different time zone.

Charlie clears his throat, and at first can't form the words. But he has to because he's the captain. "Ken. Guy- he's dead."

"How?" I'm not afraid to ask. I don't think we can get any more dramatic than this.

Julie frowns, a first for her. "Don't you remember?"

"No." I look down at the remote in my hand. My thumb is urgently pressing the 'nurse call' button.

Charlie sighs, "We were actually sort of hoping that you could tell us. All we have is the police report to go by." He gives me the details, and I listen patiently.

Oh sweet goddamn. My brain consults its psychologist, who tells me 'why the fuck do you believe that delusional bullshit?' My consciousness asks how the hell I could forget what happened. And then almost as an afterthought, asks why I don't care.

I don't answer and they don't force me. I'm traumatized, I need some space. We make small talk about safe topics. The sexual preference of certain classes, hospital food, sex. After an eternity the nurse responds to my call for help. She throws them out, Ducks or not.

So now I sit in my bed, blind to the world, but no longer actually blind. Maybe all the medication they've been pumping into me has had an unexpected side effect. Warning: may cause cold-hearted bastardization. I spend the night thinking about this. As light slowly creeps out of my room I begin to redefine the world.

(endpartfive)

A/N: sighness. it's been a while. i'm disappointed with myself. mundos propos to Rach, sweetmeredith, glum n dumb skittery, Paulkariyasgurl, rach again, punk teacher, ja stalkystar. thanks for all the lovely reviews. it makes me more happy than even i know. Kenniethie rules!

oh, and paulkariyasgurl, i totally know what you're saying about the ipods and OC and whannot. but like, it's like, i dunno what it's like. it doesn't really matter in this section because unlike some shows such as miami vice (where 80s culture was very involvededed), duckies can happen anywhere, anytime. (like an orgy, but lets not get into that).

next update a lot quicker, with more krazy ken, and with a lesslong AN.