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Blotches of rust red stained the fabric. I glanced at the newly revealed wound, wondering if it would jog my memory.
Long, straight lines, stitched with dark thread, ran up my arm, as if someone had taken a knife and tried to follow a vein. I blinked at it, watching as he checked the stitches and slowly rewrapped it in fresh bandages.
“How did that happen?” I asked. My voice came out raspy and strained, like I’d been screaming.
“You don’t remember?” Micah’s voice was careful. He finished and added a few pieces of tape to hold the gauze. “Can you tell me what you remember?”
Not much. And that was strange. My head felt fuzzy, like some giant chunk had been scooped out of my memories.
“Fuzzy.”
The nurse gave me a kind smile. “The meds can do that.”
“What meds?” I wasn’t on any medications.
“Just a temporary anti-psychotic,” he answered.
I blinked at him. Anti-psychotic?
“Why?”
“Do you remember trying to hurt yourself?” the nurse tried.
“No.” It wasn’t really my thing. And it explained nothing. How did I feel like I’d been beaten and they somehow thought I hurt myself? “Someone beat me.”
Micah frowned. “They were trying to stop you from hurting yourself.”
Hurting me worse sounded like a really bad way to do that. “By breaking my arm, a few ribs, and my face?”
He stared at me for a long minute, something guarded in his expression. “Can you remember anything specific?”
No. A flash of something, but no. Nothing I could grab and clarify. Was it the drugs? I shook my head, gaze flicking back to the corner. Thankfully, the shadow remained frozen, as if waiting for the nurse to leave.
He glanced that way too. “Would you like to sit in the common room for a little while?” His gaze returned to the corner, and he carefully got up and crossed to it. “Is something here?”
I watched him, anxiety rising as he swept his hand through the area of darkness. Nothing happened. I shook my head, uncertain what he wanted from me.
“We have a night psychiatrist making rounds in a little bit. Maybe you can watch a movie with me while we wait for him?”
“I don’t want more drugs.” Grandma had suggested a time or two that I might need something, an antidepressant or something. I’d promised her that if things got too bad, I’d call her or Grandpa first, rather than hurting myself. I stared at my bandaged wrist. “Can I call my grandparents?”
“The phones are shut down for the night, but we can call your dad in the morning.”
I recoiled at the thought of my dad. “No.” I bit out, horrified at the idea of him even knowing I was here.
The nurse carefully patted the bed beside me rather than touching me. “Okay.” His smile was kind, careful. “Maybe I can grab a book and read to you for a little while? The doctor should be in soon.” He hesitated for another few seconds before asking softly, “Does your dad hurt you?”
I flinched and looked away. The question caused an instant visceral reaction of fear inside me, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. There wasn’t even a solid memory I could point to and say, yes, this is what he did.
Micah got up, his expression tight but kind. “Let me grab a book. I’ll leave the door open and be right back. Maybe you can try to eat something?”
I shook my head.
“Okay.” Micah conceded and picked up the tray. “I’ll be right back.”
As he left with the food, I pressed myself against the wall, trying to make myself less of a target.
Micah wasn’t gone long. He returned with another man, this one not in scrubs. The doctor, maybe?
