And he wasn’t letting that go…not ever.
Recovery would be hard, but he was a hood baby. He was born already in recovery.
The air was still warm from the day, but the windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze. It smelled like hibiscus and pine trees outside, and clean linen inside. The machines in the corner hummed low, keeping pace with Malik’s healing body.
His x-ray came back good. His lungs had expanded back to their normal size and there was no fluid in them. Malik was officially in recovery.
He sat upright in bed, propped on pillows with one arm draped across his lap. Shirtless, gauze still wrapped tight around his side and chest, the bruising deep and yellowing at the edges. His breathing had steadied and he looked tired, but was grateful to be alive.
Aku stood behind him in biker shorts and a cropped tee, parting his thick hair with ease. Her hands moved slow, like she’d done this a hundred times already. Like braiding his hair was the only way she knew how to touch him without falling apart.
“I figured you’d wanna look like somebody again,” she said softly.
Malik smirked. “So, I been lookin’ crazy all this time?”
“Absolutely,” she snickered.
He chuckled under his breath and winced. His hand flew to his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh,” he muttered.
“Then stop being funny.” She leaned over slightly, peering at the section she just finished. “You want straight backs or zigzags?”
“Don’t give me nothin’ extra. Just keep it simple.”
She rolled her eyes. “You gettin’ six straight to the back, no parts. You ain’t special.”
“You wrong for that.”
She grinned.
They sat quiet for a few minutes while she worked. Her hands moved rhythmically - oiling, parting, and braiding. Every now and then, he’d shift or flinch, and she’d slow down.
“You good?” she asked, comb paused mid-section.
“Yea, just sore.”
“I can get the nurse.”
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
She ended one braid with a black rubber band and moved onto the next section. The window breeze rustled a paper on the nightstand.
Malik winced again, more than before.
Aku stopped, looking down at him.
When he winced again, she sat the comb down. “Why don’t you want the pain meds?”
He hesitated, fingers twitching against the blanket. “I used to be hooked on ‘em. Pharaoh’s pills.”
Malik wanted to keep that to himself, feeling that was too dirty to reveal to her. He never wanted her to look at him like an addict.
Aku looked at him. “For how long?”
“Couple years,” he confessed. “After Jules got killed and Pharaoh ended up in that chair, I ain’t know how to deal with it…after I killed Troy,” he gulped. He’d finally put a name on Quesha’s baby daddy. He hated saying the name out loud, afraid Karma would remember the debt he owed. “I was having dreams, seeing shit when I wasn’t even asleep. Mad at the world. I started popping Pharaoh’s pills cause he ain’t want them. He prefers weed.”
Her mouth parted, but she didn’t say anything yet.
“I thought I had it under control. I wasn’t nodding off or nothin’…but I stayed high. It got to the point where I couldn’t even tell when I was off one. It just felt normal.” He looked up, met her eyes. “…until you checked me.”
