“Come back to us, baby,” I whispered. “Please. I can’t do this without you.”
The monitors beeped steadily. The ventilator hummed. And Lina slept on.
17
— • —
Lina
Wake up.
The voice echoed through the darkness, soft and insistent.
WAKE UP.
Geez. Pushy much?
I tried to move, but my body felt wrong. My arms ached. My legs felt disconnected from my brain. Everything hurt in that bone deep way that told me I’d been lying still for way too long.
I attempted to open my eyes. Failed. Then tried again. On the third attempt, light flooded my vision and I immediately squeezed them shut because holy hell, that was bright. I blinked and blinked some more until the world finally decided to come into focus.
White ceiling, beeping machines, the distinct smell of antiseptic and clean sheets…
A hospital. I was in a hospital.
Whywas I in a hospital?
I tried to remember, but my brain offered me nothing. Just a blank slate where memories should be. My pulse spiked and my hands started to tremble. I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know how I got here, didn’t know my own name. Panic clawed at my throat and I forced myself to breathe, to stay calm and figure this out.
I turned my head to the right, my neck protesting the movement. There was a chair next to my bed. Empty. But it looked worn, used, the cushion dented in the shape of someone who had sat there for a long time. My chest squeezed at the sight, though I couldn’t explain why. Who had been sitting there? Who had been waiting for me? And why did the emptiness of that chair make me feel so desperately alone?
I kept turning my head, and that’s when I saw her.
A woman stood next to my IV pole, a syringe in her hand. She wasn’t wearing a uniform. No scrubs, no hospital badge, nothing that said she belonged here. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and her eyes were wide, panicked, locked onto mine with an expression that screamed guilt.
Fear shot through me. Who was this woman? What was she doing? What was in that syringe?
We stared at each other.
One second. Two. Three.
“You’re awake,” she squeaked.
No shit, Sherlock.
Before I could respond, before I could ask who the hell she was or what she was doing with that syringe near my IV, she bolted. Just straight up ran for the door and disappeared into the hallway.
Oh, hell no.
I threw off my blankets and swung my legs over the side of the bed, determined to chase after her because that was suspicious as hell. My feet hit the cold floor and I pushed myself up and my legs just... didn’t work. They buckled under me and I went down, my knees hitting the tiles with a crack that sent pain shooting through my joints.
“Fuck!” I yelled, grabbing onto the side of the bed to keep myself from completely face planting. I glared down at my legs. They looked fine. Normal. Two legs, two feet, ten toes. Everything seemed to be in the right place. So why weren’t they cooperating? Why was my body betraying me? What waswrongwith me?
A door slammed open across the room and I looked up to find my brain completely short circuiting at the sight before me.
A man stood in what I now realized was a bathroom doorway. His hair was wet, dripping water onto his bare shoulders, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just sweatpants hanging low on his hips and an absolutely unfair amount of muscle on display. His grayeyes were wild, frantic, searching the room until they landed on me.
And then his entire expression changed.
