Warmth near my face, heaviness, closeness. Hands on my body as if through plastic. My heart thunders inside me.
Rosabelle?
The voice is warped, waterlogged, but my body reacts to the sound automatically, responding to sense memory. A measure of tension leaves my body on instinct, clouds of panic slowly clearing, allowing room for comprehension.
I blink carefully, still blind.
In the stillness I can suddenly distinguish resonance—alarms blaring; straps coming undone; footsteps pounding; the clatter of metal, the pitch of his voice—
Rosabelle, can you hear me?
I make a sound deep in my throat; a whimper, begging. Help, I want to say. Help me—
Hands on my face, heavy. My eyelids flutter.
Rosabelle?
Mouth near my ear.
Hands and hands, in my hair, on my cheek.
It’s me, he says. It’s just me. I’m not going to leave you. I’m right here.
James.
You need to relax, okay?
Hands softly searching. Whispers in my ear.
Rosabelle? Do you trust me?
I make another desperate sound.
You can let go, he says. You’re safe.
James.
Like a parachute pulled, something inside of me releases.
A terrifying, breathtaking relief overtakes me, the feeling so powerful it unhooks me from within myself. My sharper edges retract, allowing me to sink deeper into my own flesh, blood and muscle slotting better into skin, mouth retracting from bone, my airways opening. It’s as if someone’s driven a knife into my throat and torn open my windpipe.
A cry rips from my chest.
I draw a violent, shuddering breath, oxygen rushing to my head, surging through my blood—
Rosabelle.
Stay with me.
My hearing is beginning to improve, ears settling over auditory canals as a roar of sound overwhelms me: the incessant shriek of a monitor, the retreat of shouting voices, the diminishing sounds of footfalls, the piercing din of silence. My eyes release, sliding over more nerve than muscle, and I can make out shapes and forms now, flashes of color. I blink steadily, my heart rate slowing. I search for his face and find only sensation.
I’m flooded with awareness of him.
One of his hands is still on my cheek, the other bracing my neck, his mouth so close to my skin. I feel his warm breath in my hair and I tremble as I stabilize, searching for my limbs, flexing my fingers. My heart nearly gives out when I realize I can feel my legs again.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, and I can really hear himnow, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “You’re going to be okay.”
I blink again and again, trying to focus. My eyesight is still damaged. I make out the blurred outline of a monitor beside my bed, its steady beeps reflecting my heart rate out loud.
