Ididn’t remember?the car accident. Nor did I remember the haze that descended upon me as I navigated rush-hour traffic on the I-5. I never remembered the moments when I was pulled from reality. When I blinked and somehow lost seconds, sometimes even minutes. Anything at all could happen when I slipped away. I could be mid-conversation. Halfway through cooking eggs on the stove. Or, in this case, changing lanes on the highway.
But when I came back to myself, lying on my side with the gearshift poking uncomfortably into my rib cage, I knew what must have happened.
I’d had another absence seizure.
“Damn it,” I groaned, struggling to orient myself. The car was on its side, and I was still strapped into the driver’s seat. The roof and doors had buckled, the metal squeezing in on all sides to create a claustrophobic cage. The windshield had cracked so badly that I could barely see anything through my already-blurry vision.
I blinked hard, several times, trying to clear my eyes as static blared from the brand-new radio I’d just installed. My eyes stung. When I swiped at them, my fingers came away stained red. Shit. Panic gripped me, and I patted my face and head, trying to discern where the blood was coming from. Pain bit into me as I touched my hairline, and I drew my hand away with a hiss. I twisted around in my seat toward the door. As I did, more pain burst from my rib cage, a sharp, agonizing stab that made my throat tighten with fear. Oh, God. Had I broken something?
Suck it up, Arabella. You’ve got to get out of here, I thought.
I wasn’t sure how. The door was smashed in—impossible to get open even if I had my strength. Tears rolled down my cheeks as reality settled in—my car was totaled. The little Corolla that I could never bring myself to trade in, because it was the last thing my father had given me before he’d died, was gone.
What would your father think if he could see you now?
I squeezed my eyes shut against the shame that flared deep in my chest. The car was the least of my worries. I could have killed someone—several someones. More tears slid out from beneath my eyelids—and not just for whatever pain or injury I might have caused. No, the tears were also for myself, born of grief, self-pity, and frustration.
I’d?thought these episodes were finally behind me. I hadn’t had one in at least a year and a half, not since the doctor had given me that miraculous prescription. It was a long shot, he’d said, but I’d latched onto it without a second thought. And I became so overjoyed at the results that I foolishly started thinking I could enjoy a normal life.
“Ma’am?” a male voice shouted. My ringing ears dimly picked up the sound of the car door rattling as someone tried to pry it open. Hope leapt in my chest. “Shit, it’s stuck,” he muttered.
“Are you sure that’s how it works?” a second voice asked from somewhere behind the first.
“The door? I think so,” he replied, which struck me as odd. It wasn’t like I had a fancy, complicated car. The doors were pretty straightforward, if smashed to pieces. Then he called loudly again, “Ma’am? Can you hear me? What’s your name, ma’am?”
I wanted to say ‘Arabella! My name is Arabella Palladino, and this shouldn’t have happened!’. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I groaned in answer. I attempted to sit up, but the sharp, stabbing pain in my ribs stopped me cold.
Definitely broken, I thought. With the police academy test coming up in six months, how the hell would I—
You won’t be taking the test,?a voice in my head reminded me sharply.?After this episode, I doubt you’ll be doing anything for a very long time.
A lump swelled in my throat at that. As the man outside pried open the door, my pain-riddled mind drifted back to home, to the archery and gun range in my backyard, to the attic filled with heavy bags, weights, and weapons. All so I could train, since no tactical school or martial arts academy would accept me. When I was a teen, I used to go to the gun range, and my parents had enrolled me at a dojo. But once the epilepsy had set in, no one would let me set foot through their doors.
Too much of a liability,?they’d said.?They couldn’t take the risk that I’d get injured because I blacked out and nobody realized until it was too late.
The news had devastated me, but I hadn’t let it keep me down for long. Over, under, around, or through—there was always a way to get what you wanted. My father had drilled that into my head since I was a little girl, and I’d clung to it during the dark times, used it to lift myself up. Doctors and specialists had warned me I’d never join the military, or play any of the sports I used to excel at, and that getting into law enforcement would be a challenge. But I ignored them and kept pushing myself while I searched for a cure. I wanted to stay sharp, to be ready for the day that my seizures finally went away, so I could embrace my calling. And besides, I’d read that practicing martial arts could actually help control seizures, so I wasn’t going to give up just because a dojo didn’t want me.
Sometimes I thought I was insane. After all, this wasn’t the only path available to me. I had a good head on my shoulders, and if I put my mind to it, I was sure I could find something else to do. I had a natural bent for baking—I could go to culinary school and become a pastry chef. I was decent with numbers—I could take some classes and become a bookkeeper. Why fight so hard for a career in law enforcement when it had rejected me for so long?
And yet, I couldn’t let it go. Despite all the reasons to turn around and walk away, there was a deep-seated need inside me to protect and defend. To fight against corruption and shield the innocent. I tried to give an outlet to those needs by volunteering, but it wasn’t enough. Something in me wanted to be on the front lines. To fight.
The door gave a loud, screeching groan, before it finally popped off. Cool air rushed into the car, and I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of red lights flashing in the background. An ambulance must have arrived while I was lost in my thoughts.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” a man asked as he leaned in, filling my vision. I blinked the blood and sweat out of my eyes so I could get a good look at my savior. He was dark haired and average looking, dressed in a standard EMT uniform. His face was drawn tight in concern. But something lurked in his grey eyes that made my gut twist, and a strange, dark feeling brushed up against me, almost as if it were the devil touching my soul.
“Y-yeah,” I croaked, pushing the feeling away. I was disoriented, that was all, and more than a little ashamed I’d ended up in this situation. But as the man reached for my seatbelt, a chill ran down my spine, and I instinctively reached for my concealed carry purse. Something about this guy was giving me the absolute creeps, and I had to swallow against the sudden rush of bile up my throat.
“Now, now,” the man said, pressing his forearm into my injured side as he undid the seatbelt. I let out a strangled cry as my body stiffened with agony. “Don’t move around too much. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
I opened my mouth to retort that he was the one hurting me, but I couldn’t breathe through the pain. “Get the stretcher,” he called over his shoulder as I struggled for air. “We need to get her to the hospital, ASAP.”
“I’m not going?anywh—” I started to say, but the man grabbed me roughly by the legs and tugged. I cried out as the motion jarred my aching ribs again. Desperate now, I reached behind me, flailing around for my purse, but it must have fallen to the floor. Dammit! I couldn’t leave my gun behind!
“Young man,” someone chided, an elderly woman by the sound of her voice. “You ought to be more careful. You’re hurting that nice young lady.”
“Nice young lady?” another woman shrieked, and I lifted my head to see a brunette dressed in black leather and heels glaring at me, a bruise mottling the side of her pale cheek. I figured she probably owned the Camaro behind her, its rear-end smashed in. “She fucking?hit?my car! Dumb bitch was probably high or drunk, drifting out of the lane like that!” The brunette shook a bony fist at me. “You bet your ass my lawyers will be in touch!”
Yep. Definitely the Camaro. Shit. I’d be pissed too. God, I hoped my insurance would cover that, and that she wasn’t hurt in any way. This could have been so much worse…
