“I have to use the bathroom,” I say. “But I’m hooked to the IV.”
“Let me get a nurse.” He’s instantly on his feet, disappearing into the hallway.
As I’m waiting, I realize I’m hungry. Like, really hungry. They asked me if I wanted to eat last night in the ER but I was too nauseated. This morning, I’m ravenous.
“Good morning.” A nurse I haven’t seen before comes in. “I hear you need to go potty. Let me disconnect the IV so you can take care of business.”
Potty? What am I, five?
“Did I sleep through breakfast?” I ask instead, slowly swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
“Not at all. It’ll be here in a few.”
“Thank you.” I cautiously get to my feet and am gratified that I don’t feel dizzy. Just hungry and exhausted. The exhaustion is probably more mental than physical but it’s hard to distinguish them at this point.
I pad into the bathroom and close the door, taking a moment to lean against it. With the door shut, it’s quiet, much quieter than in my room, and it’s a little eerie. It was so quiet in the place they kept me for nearly two days. No sounds of other people in the building, no cars or weather, just complete silence. Except when the men were there.
But I’m not thinking about that now.
I sink onto the toilet and try to breathe.
I count to ten after I wash my hands and face, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically.
There’s a toothbrush, which is the sweetest gift in the world after the last two days, and I spend an extra few minutes brushing my teeth. As if that will somehow wash away some of the dirt that’s more internal than external. My body feels disgusting and I plan to shower as soon as I’m allowed, but my soul feels gross too.
And I don’t know how I’ll ever getthatclean.
Leaning with my hands flat on the counter, I finally lift my head to look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me is wary. Drained. Bruised. But her eyes are sharp. Resilient.
Because I’m alive.
I survived and I will always survive.
I may have walked away from the MC lifestyle but I was raised by a tough-as-nails man and a woman who took no shit from anyone. My mother wasn’t your typical club wife. She worked as a professor at the local community college, she had friends and a busy social life that wasn’t just about the club, and she kept my father reined in. To a degree. I know he did things she didn’t approve of but he loved her completely, protected us fiercely, and the only time I ever saw him cry was when the doctors told us she was gone after a very brief bout with cancer.
The Sterlings are a tough lot, including me.
So, I steel myself and lift my head, even when the bruises make me wince.
Iwillget past this.
I just have to survive these first few days.
Once I get back to my life—back to work—it’ll be easier. I’ll find a therapist, maybe take a week and go to a wellness retreat with my friend Lacy, and then try to put this behind me.
Landon is gone when I walk back into the room but someone delivered a hot tray of food and the smell of coffee makes my mouth water. Without hesitation, I sit on the bed and pull the tray table close, opening the lid of the covered dish.
Pancakes.
Bacon.
Coffee.
Fruit.
Heaven.
I pop a grape in my mouth and then add the little container of cream to my coffee. It’s not enough but it will do. I smother the pancakes in butter, dump the entire container of syrup on them, and take a massive bite. Just as I’ve put it in my mouth, a man I don’t recognize walks into my room.
