She blows out a sigh at my silence and stands, taking her notebook with her. “I’ll give you some time to process. A nurse will be in soon with some food and another doctor will be in shortly to assess your pain levels.”
I ignore her, and the second the door shuts behind her and her cronies, I crumple. Dropping my head back, I let the tears fall in torrents. They roll down my temples, disappearing into my ratty hair. Silent sobs wrack my body, sending pain down my spine, but I welcome it. Because chances are, these four walls will be my home for God knows how long.
I’d like to say I have a plan and that I’m not giving up, but that’d be a lie. Because I am giving up.
They’ve finally won.
Ten days.
Two hundred forty hours.
Fourteen thousand four hundred minutes.
That’s how long I’ve been stuck here. Trapped in this hellhole that’s supposed to heal me. It’s doing everything else but that. After my first encounter with Dr. Aster, things have only gotten worse. Those first three days, she would come in with her stupid gray hair pulled back into a bun and try to get me to talk about Madison. When I wouldn’t talk, she’d provoke me into talking with anger.
She’d mention I belonged here.
That everyone truly thought I was crazy after all that had happened.
Those words always struck a chord in me, and she knew it. In just three days, it felt like she knew my own mind better than I did, and that was scary. During our meetings, she would try to get me to see reason, try to get me to see that the Madison who was coming to me wasn’t my sister. It was my imagination. It was my grief creeping up on me. She said she’d seen it plenty of times before in other cases, but the thing was, I wasn’t just another case. I knew Madison was dead, but I also knew that was her. She was real. I felt her. There’s no other explanation. And I refused to believe it was all in my head because then that meant that my sister…that meant she was really gone. In every aspect.
With every tic of my jaw, furrow of my brow, and the increase in the rise and fall of my chest, it seemed like Dr. Aster knew what I was thinking, or rather, feeling, even before I did. And that stupid fucking notebook.
God, I hated that notebook.
She wrote in there for every little thing. If she’d walk into the room and say, “Good morning,” and I wouldn’t reply? It went in the notebook. If I so much as spoke one word, it went in the notebook. Everything about me was in that goddamn notebook, and I had the urge to chuck it at the wall, rip out each page, toss them into pile, and set them on fire.
I was tired.
Sick and tired of the same faces.
Sick and tired of seeing the same people and doing the same thing.
I was sick of this place.
I missed my friends.
I missed my sister.
But most of all, I missed Baz. And I hated myself for it. I hated how much space he took up inside my head. How much I missed his touch, his smile, his arms wrapped around me.
Arms that did God knows what to Madison.
My chest tightens alarmingly with pain. It reverberates through my body, squeezing my heart in a vise and making it hard to breathe. I can’t help but look back on our time together and wonder the exact moment he decided he was going to keep stringing me along for his sick ruse.
Would he have killed me, too?
And if so, when?
What was their plan?
All the mistakes I’d made in our “relationship” suddenly felt like they were fractures in my bones. They were the exact reason I was here, crippled in this bed.
I’m jolted out of those thoughts when the door to this shit room opens and the same two goddamn nurses come in, followed by Dr. Aster. Annnd, you guessed it, notebook and pen in hand and at the ready. She pauses over the threshold, cocks her head to the side, and rubs her lips together as she regards me. As if she suddenly has the answers she needs, she starts scribbling something down on the open page of her notebook, and I let out a frustrated sound, slamming my good hand into the sheets.
“What in God’s name have I done now? What could have possibly warranted you writing something down when I’m literally sitting here?”
She raises her brow, her head cocking even farther, and she purses her lips disapprovingly, writing something else down.
Pressing my lips together, I hold back all the things I want to say but know I shouldn’t. As if sensing my restraint and approving of it, Dr. Aster’s lip twitches as if it wants to turn up into a smile. I despise that, too.
“How are you feeling today, Mackenzie?”
I make a show of looking down at my bandaged and broken body in the bed. “The same as yesterday. It still feels like I was hit by a fucking truck.”
“That’s to be expected. You rolled down a cliff in your car. Our bodies can only sustain so much.” Her retort isn’t snarky, but there is a small undercurrent of disapproval in her tone. It’s always there. She doesn’t outright say she thinks I’m a psycho, but it’s there in her eyes, the way she regards me, and the way she speaks to me. I despise that, too.
Just the mention of rolling in the car turns my stomach. I drop my gaze down to the bed, taking in my legs that are braced and casted and every other inch of my body that’s bandaged. I’m told my right leg only needs to be casted for the next two weeks before it can come off. I sustained a hairline fracture in my tibia, which should heal quickly since I’m not active. Though, the doctor did advise, I might live the rest of my life with at least some form of discomfort from the fracture. Now, my left leg is a different story. Somehow during the accident, I shattered my kneecap and cracked the top portion of my hip. I also have a clean break in my ankle, which the doctor believes was sustained while I was escaping the mangled vehicle. The entire left side of my leg is casted and braced with metal bars for my hip bone.
I’ve yet to see the scars on my body, but I know they’re there. I can feel them, the heat that radiates from the wound. A nurse comes in a few times a day to clean the dressing around my abdomen, and I still haven’t found the strength to look yet. I know once I see it, I won’t be able to unsee it, and that’s what scares me. When I was younger, I didn’t care much about looks, but as I got older, that changed. It pains me to admit that sometimes I feel like I’d be nothing without my looks. I may not be the most beautiful woman out there, but I do know my assets. And if someone were to take away those assets, I don’t feel like any part of me left is worthwhile. I have nothing else to offer.
“If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to show you around the facility today, so you can get better acquainted with everyone here. But first, Stephanie here will help you get cleaned up.” She motions to the female nurse standing beside her. I blow out a little sigh of relief that at least a man won’t be the one helping me clean myself. The nurse who usually redresses my wounds is an older woman in her late forties. She’s nice but doesn’t say much, so I never truly feel self-conscious around her. As I stare at this other nurse, I wait for that feeling to creep in, but surprisingly, it doesn’t. I’m already at rock bottom, so I fear any lower, and there will be no chance of finding my way back up.
“Stephanie, page us when you’re both ready.”
With that, Dr. Aster steps out of room, and the burly male nurse, who I’ve seen more times than I’d like, stays behind, but he doesn’t make any move to help. I guess he’s just here as backup, in case I decide to truly act like a crazy person.