“I can’t. I can’t.”
“You can,” she says. “And you will.”
She says my name again and again and again. Louder, sharper, and then—
For a single second, I think I’ve woken from a nightmare and am curled up in my own bed. In my own house.
I used to cherish that second after waking up; for a single, solitary moment, Harper was still alive. I was still in that little apartment, with Margot tossing and turning in her own bed across the room. My mom was in the kitchen, the smell of microwaved bacon filling the entire apartment.
Then reality slams back into place.
I am in a hospital bed, but this is not a hospital. Slick cement walls. A counter with a set of medical tools resting atop it.
I have no way of knowing how long it’s been since Holden left. There is an old clock hanging on the wall. I’ve always been terrible at reading them. It takes a moment: 1:27. But a.m. or p.m.? Have I lost a few hours or a whole day?
The IV sticking out of my arm traces up my bicep, over my shoulder, and up to a pole resting near the bed. A bag hangs off it. Whatever is inside is turning me to mush. I yank on my wrists until they burn, trying and failing to catch the IV.
I’ve cringed each time a character in a movie or show yanks out their IV without warning; it seemed counterintuitive to me. Dangerous. But panic lights a fire in my blood, tunneling my attention to the IV and whatever drugs are pumping into my veins.
The dream comes back to me in fragments: Ingrid kneeling at my side.
You’re all they have.
Jasper. Finn. Sloane. Aisha. If I’m here, they are, too. Closer to me than they’ve ever been.
It would be so easy to give in.
I blink away my tears.
I’m not dying here. No one else is dying here.
I crane my neck, following the IV line. It rests against my shoulder, cloudy liquid slowly sliding through it and into my arm.
There is one clear option and it’s a crappy one, but I’m already strapped to a bed in some monster’s lair.
I shrug my shoulders. The IV slides down into the crook of my neck. I have to shrug a few times to move it close enough to my mouth.
This could fail. This could make things worse. But things are already pretty fucking horrible.
I catch the IV between my teeth. Bite down, hard. I have to gnaw, scraping my teeth against each other, and I can’t decide which sensation is worse—bone on bone or teeth on rubber.
The rubber cracks, and bitter liquid fills my mouth. I keep biting, biting, biting, until the IV splits into two. The top half swings, spewing liquid onto my arms and face, onto the floor.
In the movies, the main character would feel immediate relief. An instant clear to the brain fog brought on by the drugs. But everything is still muddled like I’m underwater.
My head smacks the mattress, exhaustion weighing my limbs down. I let my eyes slide shut. I’m not sure how much time passes before I open them again.
I have no clue how long the meds will stick in my system. It certainly won’t be a quick recovery. Which means whatever I do, I have to do it like this.
My ankles are strapped tight to the far end of the bed. The leather straps around my wrist are tight but not nearly as much.
I see an image of Holden strapping me down, leaving the barest amount of space when he pulls the leather straps over my wrists. Telling himself he’s being merciful by not cutting off the circulation in my hands. Convincing himself an inch of comfort makes up for all the blood on his hands.
They say that a human is capable of biting off their own fingerlike a carrot. That the strength is there, but the will is not. That common sense will stop the force before enough of it is applied.
This is not the place for common sense. I’m no longer a human but a rabbit with its foot in a trap, chewing off its own limb to escape.
I take a deep breath. Squeeze my eyes shut. Test my wrist restraints. The right, a hair looser than the left. It’s my dominant hand, but dominance means nothing with both hands tied, anyway.
