Slowly, my vision comes into focus — soft lights, clean sheets.
My throat is dry, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. My head pounds. There’s an IV in my arm, a pulse monitor beside me.
Hospital.
I don’t remember deciding to stay alive, but… here I am.
A figure moves in my periphery. I turn my head. A woman in her late thirties, maybe, lab coat, tired eyes. She stands up.
“You’re awake.” Her voice is gentle. “You gave us a scare.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. She pours a cup of water and helps me sit up just enough to sip.
“What happened?” I croak.
“You wandered out into the street and collapsed. Luckily, the driver was able to stop and didn’t hit you. He brought you to the hospital.”
I blink.
“You had internal bleeding from a laceration on your liver. We operatedto fix it. You also had a deep cut on the back of your head, we sewed that up as well, and you have a concussion. You were very lucky.”
I don’t feel lucky. I feel like someone scooped out all my insides, and now I’m just an empty carton of ice cream someone discarded in the trash.
“Can you tell me your name?” She walks to the table at the end of my bed, flipping open my chart.
“Is—” I clear my throat. “Isobel Mason.”
“Date of birth?”
“June 27th.”
“How old did you turn yesterday?”
“Eighteen.”
I see the change in her eyes, from sadness to empathy. The pieces are clicking into place.
“Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Only one name comes to mind.Fuck, that’s depressing.
“Yes, please. My best friend, Maeve.”
“Alright, write her number down, I’ll call her.” She hands me a notepad and a pen. I scribble down her number and hand it back.
“While you were unconscious…” She pauses and folds her hands in front of her. “We ran full imaging. Scans. X-rays.”
I nod, barely.
She doesn’t look away. Her voice stays calm. “Isobel…there are signs of long-term physical abuse. Multiple old fractures. Ribs, wrist, cheekbone. Several healed improperly. Scarring consistent with burns and deep cuts. Severe tissue bruising over time.”
Each word feels like another layer being peeled away. Someone is finally looking at the damage. She’s not asking. She’s not guessing. She knows, the proof shown all over my films.
“None of this is new. And none of it is your fault.”
I stare at her hands resting on the table. She doesn’t rush me. I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, not wanting to see the pity in them.
CLANG.
