“I swear to god, mom, if he doesn’t convince the doctor to get me out of here, I’m going to lose it.” Tears fall down my face. I try to reach up and wipe them away. I can’t. My arms are too weak to move. Either that or I simply don’t give a shit if they fall. I don’t care about anything except getting out of this hospital, getting away from his voice that’s taunting me in my head. One minute he’s speaking low, the next he’s screaming. Voices, so many variations of Royal’s voice. His laugh is the worse. Devious. Deathly. Destructive.
I sag into the bed, defeated, trying helplessly to focus on something or someone else.
Aidan Hughes. I can focus on him. No, not him. Images of his bruised and battered face invade my mind, mixing with those voices.
Aidan can never see me like this. He’s lodged in my head too. I should hate him after the things he said to me, the way he treated me after we gave in to the carnal desire we felt for each other. I know I treated the man poorly, but he just kept getting under my skin. His deep voice. His bright blue eyes. His muscular body. His six-foot-something frame. I hate him.
Oh, I heard him, all right, demanding for me to hang on while I felt like I was going to die every time Royal pierced me with his knife. He even called me baby a few times. He’s a callous asshole. A user. A fucking tool of a man, and I don’t want to see him. I’ve gone insane. I don’t want or need anybody. They can let me die. Yes. The only way to get rid of any and all of these voices in my head is to die.
“Deidre.” An older woman comes into my room, followed by my dad. The look of concern on their faces stops me in the tracks of plotting ways to kill myself.
“I’m Doctor Jenkins. Your father here has told me you want to leave. I cannot discharge you. This is the best place for you to be. You have to heal. Now, are you in any pain, sweetheart? Would you like the nurse to give you—”
“Noooooooooooooo! Quit saying I have to heal! You don’t know what I need or have to do! None of you do!” I scream. Her body jolts back.
I’ve fucking had it with these people not listening to me. I start to thrash in the small bed. Kick the covers off. My body is so weak I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. All I know is if they won’t help me, then I will help myself. I will get out of here. I will. Then I will die. The howling laughter, the slimy deep tones, their faces, they will all be gone.
“Deidre. My god. Stop.” I feel my dad gripping my legs to try and calm me down.
“Fuck all of you. Get off of me.” Somehow I manage to get up on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye I see two men run into my room. I move like lighting and rip the IV out of my arm. I feel my stitches tearing open in my back. I don’t care. I need to get the fuck away, get him out of my head. Get everyone away from me. Life is too much for me right now. I’m completely depleted, both internally and externally. My limit has been reached. The tether has snapped. My nerves are shattered.
Suddenly, it happens. I drift away. And just like that, I feel nothing at all.
When I finally wake up, my eyes are blinking rapidly to the blinding sunlight coming from the one and only window in a cheerily bright room. I see pale yellow walls, smell fresh flowers. Where in the hell am I? This is definitely not my old room. My old room is green. I have Justin Timberlake plastered all over my walls, not pictures of a spectacular sunset or a photo of a woman walking through a field of wildflowers.
I close my eyes for a few moments, my head groggy. My throat is incredibly dry. Maybe I’m dead, and this is my cheery, little room in heaven. I must be dead. I feel no pain.
Recollection hits me like a freight train, the memoires smashing into me, taking my breath away. I have no idea where the hell I am. I’m exhausted, mentally weak. And I sure as crap am not dead.
A throat clears in the corner. Lifting my head from the comfort of my pillow, I beam at the sight of my mom sitting on a floral print couch. Her beautiful appearance stares at me with a smile spreading clear across her face.
“Mom.” My ability to speak is strained.
“Oh god, sweetie.” She stands. Her small frame is so much smaller than I remember. She looks terrible, for lack of a better word. Older even. I have no clue how long I have been out. I remember everything, except for where I am or how I got here. So many questions are running a long distance marathon in my head. I need answers.
“Where am I?” I rasp out.
“Let me get the nurse, honey.” She steps up beside me, picks up a cord, and presses a button.
Her delicate fingers then slide through my hair, brushing it back from my face.
“You look so rested, sweet girl.” Tears stream down her face when she talks. There’s something in the way she’s looking at me that sets me on edge. Don’t ask me how I know when my head doesn’t even feel like it’s attached to my body. I know my mom though, and something is wrong.