Obsessed(72)

And then…then I remembered Deck. His hands. My pants being removed. His body trapping me into the ground. That fear made me tense because I could still feel its grip inside my chest. Had I pushed him off me before he’d done it? I didn’t feel any different between my legs, and my whole body ached as it was, so…no, he didn’t. I’d bitten him and he’d pushed off. Yes, that was what happened.

Relief eased my fears and I took a few deep breaths, telling myself it was going to be okay.

I felt like I was floating. I was drunk still. I raised my arm and the movements were slow. Horrified, I looked at the IV in my wrist and followed the tube to the pouch of clear liquid it was attached to. Oh, my God. Why did I need this?

“How are you feeling?”

My eyes broke away from the IV stand and at the deep voice across the room. My heart hiccupped a little in my chest. Doctor Crowe. Hayden. Matt Bomer doppelganger. Whatever he was called. He was in the room, leaning back against the wall, looking at me. How long had he been here? Why was he here?

“I feel like shit,” I rasped out.

His lips crooked up on one side. “I would be too. You had alcohol poisoning. 3.16 percent. Lot of people die at 4, by the way.”

I slowly sat up on my bed, digesting his words. The room spun again and I huffed. “How long am I going to be feeling like this?”

“A little while longer.”

I swallowed. “I, uh…Is there water around?”

“Right next to you.”

I looked at the overbed table against my bed and at the plastic cup on top. I grabbed it with shaky fingers and sipped the lukewarm water. God, my throat ached. It was hard to swallow down. I felt queasier every passing second, and after three sips, I put the cup back down.

We didn’t speak for several minutes. I looked at him and he looked back at me. I didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

“I thought I heard your voice,” I whispered. “At least, I think I did.”

“I was here when they brought you in,” he replied.

I winced. “I’m sorry…I don’t know what happened.”

“You were very drunk.”

“I’ve never…that’s never happened to me before.”

He stared at me hard for several seconds. “Your mother was called. She said she’d come down sometime this morning, along with a police officer. Apparently there was an incident with a man.”

I swallowed thickly. “He didn’t…get there.”

Ugh, why was I telling him this?

He looked at me like that mattered a lot to him. “I’m very relieved to hear that, Elise.”

I cleared my throat, feeling awkward as ever now. I regretted saying anything. It wasn’t his business one bit. “You don’t…You don’t have to be here.”

“I’m off-shift,” he said. “I’m about to go. I just wanted to see how you were before I headed out.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you want to see me before you headed out?”

He sighed quietly, his brows furrowed. “You remind me of someone.”

I gave him a strange look. “Is that a bad thing?”

“She was very destructive.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Yeah.”

I frowned and looked back down at my hands. “You’re wrong.”

He chuckled wryly. “You came to me with a hand split open after you wielded an axe around. Months later I find you on a bench, bawling your eyes out over a horrible loss. Then you’re dragged in here last night, kicking and screaming, your alcohol content through the roof, and your behaviour deplorable. You also have a wallet that belongs to a Michelle in your purse, and I’m not going to start jumping to conclusions, but upon discovering your scratches and bruises on your body, your friend stated you had also gotten into an altercation at school with a girl by the name of Michelle.” He tilted his head to the side, looking at me evenly. “Am I still wrong?”

I blinked back tears. “When you say it like that…”

I sounded like a fucked up lunatic. What had possessed me to react that way? It sounded like a stranger. Had I really fallen so far?

“It’s okay to cry,” he said sympathetically. “You’re depressed.”

I scoffed. “I’m eighteen,” I rasped out. “What does an eighteen-year-old really have to be depressed about?”

“On the contrary, everything. Eighteen is a scary number. Life hits you hard. You’re officially an adult, and you discover there’s nothing really great about it. You’re part of the system, and the system eats you alive and doesn’t care that you lost your father, or that you’re alone. Eighteen is a violent number when it wants to be to a person as vulnerable as you.”