I can’t if my body is numb.
Or if I can’t speak.
“Examination room. Go,” a brute female voice snaps from outside the room.
Hands are all over me, flipping me onto my side, facing away from the door. I already know what’s coming next. Another needle, injected to extract spinal fluid. A groan rumbles through my throat as nails pinch into my arms. The pain—unbearable. Why is it I feel this but not my limbs?
Please God, make it stop. Please.
I inhale sharply then hold onto my breath, hoping the pressure in my lungs will ease the pain. It does nothing. The air escapes through a pinched whine. I clench my teeth, bite my cheek to displace some of the pain, waiting until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
The needle slips out as if with care rather than the stab they jolted me with. My back throbs as they sling me onto my back.The pain subsides just enough that I wince through slit eyes, struggling to stare beyond my feet against the blaring white light, but I manage to see her angelic eyes, staring back at me with grief.
Is it truly her? Or is she the last thing my mind goes to before…the end.
Her name flickers on my tongue. I want to say it out loud, feel it, hear it.
Rosalie.
A beautiful rose.
The doctor. He’s back in sight. Holding a syringe, flicking the needle as clear liquid sputters from the tip. “Wh—what is that?” My words have no sound, no use. He moves to the side, out of view, leaving Rosalie close enough to touch if I could lift my arms and reach out to her.
Her chin is quivering. Her jaw is tight. Eyes wide and unblinking. I don’t want to know what she sees while looking at me—how horrible the sight must be. After what this doctor has done to me, what he’s put me through, somehow keeping me alive just enough to sit here and take more.
That syringe could be lethal. He said there would be an end. He made it clear.
“Do you have something to take notes with?” the doctor asks aloud.
Rosalie shakes her head. He’s talking to her. Why is he talking to her? What does he have to do with her? Of all the people in the world, why…why her?
His arm stretches past me, over to Rosalie with a notepad clipped to a board, a pencil dangling from a string. “Now, every detail matters here. This is very important.”
Without moving her stare from my face, she lifts the clipboard and pencil, then positions her hand over the notepad. Her eyes are lightless. I don’t understand.
The needle jabs into the flesh beneath my elbow, a cold liquid pressing into my bloodstream.
“You’ll need to keep an eye on the clock for this one. As you know…every second matters,” the doctor says.
Rosalie flinches, and her hand becomes unsteady as she presses the tip of her pencil to the paper. She takes in a shuddered breath. She only does that when she’s terrified. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at her—the love of my life. Her lifeless expression. Pale pallor of her cheeks. But it’s now that my heart grows a second pulse.
Bum-bum bum-bum bum-bum.
My breaths struggle to keep up.
My heart and lungs battle for life.
Currents pump through my veins. It’s as if I’m running and leaping. But no exhaustion. No weakness.
The nerves in my limbs ignite, burn. The feeling—too much, overwhelming, like a second skin I want to scratch away. A growl rumbles through my chest as I heave in air.
I twist my head, able to see over my shoulder now. The doctor, his hand pinched around his dimpled chin, watches me as if I’m a pin-less grenade, and a dud—like he’s safe from the explosion that almost—never—happened.
A tremor shivers through my arms. My muscles spasm. I feel it all. I clench my hands into fists to squeeze against the pressure.
Breaths thicken.
Teeth gnash.
