Mom, all up in my face. Her hands grabbing me, slamming me into the wall. Then she tackled me to the floor, where she kicked my stomach over and over.
Then my arms.
The sting of her pointy heel on my thigh was just as brutal.
She didn’t even break a sweat while she beat the crap out of me.
Look at what you made me do.
At five-one, I’m a foot shorter than she is. I’m also fifty pounds lighter and not by choice. She won’t let me buy weights, take self-defense or martial arts classes, or even get a gym membership like she has.
Fear sends a tremor up my spine as I remember, again, that I’m about to face her.
I’ve got to get out of here.
My muscles strain as I brace myself to get out of bed.
At the same time, I force my eyes open through the morphine. Once I’m able to look around, my temples throb as confusion settles in.
I’m not at Dr. Simmons’s.
The ceiling is too white, nothing like the soft cream at his private practice. And this bed, I realize as I concentrate, is the stiffest I’ve ever been in.
The air is wrong too. No expensive disinfectant reaches my nose.
And then there are the monitors. Their sounds are too loud.
Dr. Simmons knows better. Mom can’t stand noise, let alone the steadybeep, beep, beepof the machines that say I’m still alive.
Where am I, then?
The next breath I take comes in deeper, fuller than usual.
Eyebrows scrunched, my gaze drifts lower, landing on the mask covering my nose and mouth.
That’s when it hits me.
The ambulance. The hospital.
The man in navy-blue scrubs.
Dr. Lockwood.
Alaric.
“Not on my fucking watch.”
I have to find him and tell him that if he really meant it, then he has to keep me here. That’s the only way I can be saved.
He’ll help me, right?
Right?
I don’t want to die so young.
Please.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep, the monitor goes as panic rises.