Thankfully, a doctor enters before I can respond, clipboard in hand, expression solemn. He speaks in a serious tone, though most of it is directed at Joel. I'm barely listening, though I catch the important words. Blood loss. Stable.Psychiatric evaluation. Joel's hand tightens around mine, but I know it’s a warning, not a comfort.
“She's been under a lot of stress lately,” Joel says, his voice cracking just enough to seem authentic. “We've been trying to start a family, and it's been… difficult.”
The lie comes out so smoothly that I almost believe it myself. I watch as he transforms from the man I know into a heartbroken husband devastated by his wife's suffering.
It makes me want to vomit.
“I understand the protocols here, what with my profession and all, but I think what she needs most is to be home with me where I can watch her 24/7. I've already arranged time off work.”
The doctor hesitates, glancing between us. “We’ll still need to perform a psychiatric evaluation, so as long as the team agrees that she doesn’t pose a threat to herself or others, she’ll be free to go.”
Joel's fingers dig into my palm as another warning not to fuck this up further while I debate telling the psychiatrist that I’d rather jump into oncoming traffic than go home again.
More conversations happen around me. Release forms are signed. Pamphlets about crisis hotlines are handed over. I answer some questions about my mental health with easy lies until they’re satisfied I’m not going to hurt myself again.
Later, while I’m waiting for the go-ahead to leave, Joel’s mask finally slips once his patience wears thin.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he hisses. “Do you have any idea how this makes me look? The whole department knows about this stunt you pulled.”
Of course that’s what he’s worried about. His reputation. In one morning, I’ve shattered the illusion he’s built of a perfect husband and a happy wife.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though my voice is flat. I can’t pretend to care.
“Seriously,” he continues, “if you wanted attention, there were plenty of other ways to do that without making everyone think you’re fucking insane.”
I stare at the ceiling, letting his words wash over me like waves crashing against stone. Nothing he says matters anymore. I was so close to being done with him forever. Now, I’m just numb.
A nurse returns with discharge papers and a peppy smile. Joel steps back, concern instantly masking his features.
“Ready to get you home and comfortable,” he says, loud enough for the nurse to hear.
She smiles approvingly as she helps me sit up. I don’t want to sit up. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to go home. Anything would be better than returning to that life.
Joel takes the plastic bag containing my blood-stained clothes and places it on the bed beside me while the nurse removes my IV.
After she leaves, I slowly change into the set of clean clothes Joel must have gone home to get for me—sweatpants and a t-shirt. I stand and shove my hands in my pockets, where my fingers brush against something.
Pulling it out, I see that it’s a small, folded piece of paper.
I glance at Joel, who's occupied with the discharge paperwork, and carefully unfold it. Written in sharp, elegant handwriting I don't recognize is an address, but nothing more. No name, no explanation.
But I know who it’s from all the same, even if I don’t understand how or why I’d know.
It’s him.
The man from my dreams. The stranger whose face Ifinally saw clearly as life drained from me. He's real, and he's given me an escape route of some sort.
His words from my dreams echo in my mind. “Find me.”
I fold the paper carefully and slip it back into my pocket before Joel can notice. For the first time since waking in this sterile room, there’s a spark of hope blooming within me. It’s small, but it’s there.
By the time we step out the front doors of the hospital, I’m already concocting a plan.
The next morning, Joel leaves for work after telling me not to do anything stupid. Even my suicide attempt isn't enough to justify more than a day's absence from the department, and I’m sure he lied to his coworkers and told them someone would be here to take care of me.
Before he goes, he confiscates my car keys and phone “just to be safe.” It’s a punishment, though, no matter how much he claims it’s for my wellbeing. Just another way to control me.
The moment his cruiser pulls out of the driveway, I'm in motion. I pull a suitcase and a backpack from the closet and stuff them with whatever I can grab that I might need—clothes, toiletries, leftover pills from my old Xanax prescription, the hidden cash from my grocery store thefts.
