I’m not entirely sure what discussions they’ve had, or if they’ve even talked about this strange thing that’s going on between the four of us, but they don’t seem to be fighting over me. They don’t even seem jealous of each other touching me—not like they once did. The fact that they’re all here with me in the hospital speaks volumes.
It’s complicated and confusing, but I’m not in a place to really examine it right now, and certainly not in a place to talk about it. My temples are throbbing and sleep is tugging at me. I’m not gonna be conscious for much longer.
Gray throws one last look over his shoulder as he and the guys shuffle out, a flash of worry passing through his features. I give him a weak smile that’s supposed to be reassuring, although I don’t think it has the intended effect. If anything, he looks even more concerned as he closes the door behind them.
As soon as the door clicks shut and there’s nothing else to keep my attention, the room around me starts becoming muddy. The clock above the door swirls and whirls around until it’s no more than a smudge of numbers and arrows, until the sterile hospital room slowly drifts away from me. With a deep sigh, I slip back into the dark, quiet world of sleep.
Maybe I’ll remember when I wake up.
2
I wake up with a gasp.
I’m clutching the damp sheet with both hands, and the bottom part of the fabric is wrapped around my legs, making me feel claustrophobic and trapped. My body is slick with sweat that begins to chill on my skin as I come out of a dream I don’t remember, my muscles shaking violently.
It’s dark in the room. A little light streams through the window, but it’s not enough.
Fuck.
I’m not scared of the darkness around me, but I am afraid of this—of the feelings roiling in my chest. I was dreaming, but just like so many other goddamn things in my life, I can’t remember what it is I was dreaming about. All I know is that it was a nightmare, and either my body is trying to protect me from the demons that attacked me in my sleep by storing it away somewhere I can’t reach it, or I’m really starting to lose all of my memories.
Jesus, Sophie. Get it the fuck together.
I push aside the sheets that are wrapped around my legs, shoving them off the bed. Fear wracks my body, even though there’s nothing to be scared of, and I fucking hate it.
Why can’t I just be a normal goddamn human being?
Things were going well, or starting to, over the past few weeks. Once the Sinners made it clear they were unequivocally on my side, the bullying and stupid taunts calmed down. Gray finally told me about his sister, admitting why he’d been such a fucking asshole, and something seismic shifted between us. I could relate to his pain, his loss. Jared wasn’t my brother, but in the fucked up adolescence I had, he was the closest thing to one I’d ever get.
And Declan and Elias. Things were changing between the three of us too. Becoming deeper, becoming… more.
But then this happened. I fell down a fucking flight of stairs and now I can’t remember shit. I can’t even remember the dreams that haunted me mere minutes ago, can’t remember the images that cause the lingering fear, pumping through my body like adrenaline.
I need my paints.
My whole body shivers as I try to suck in deep breaths, try to calm myself.
I need to paint.
Art has always been my outlet, and I fucking need that right now. I need my paints to be able to channel the fear and the energy into color and darkness, into shapes and shadows. I need to put it down on a canvas, on a page—if for no other reason than to prove to myself that it is real, to remember what it is my subconscious is trying so hard to repress.
I need my paints to let those fleeting memories become solid, real, tangible. I need the canvas to be able to get all the shit out of my head and onto a place where I can actually examine it, see it. Feel it.
Swallowing, I press a hand to my racing heart. The contact, even if it’s my own skin, makes something inside me still a little bit.
I can’t keep fucking doing this. I want Gray right now. Or Elias or Declan. Or all of them. It doesn’t matter. I just need someone.
But you don’t have anyone, I remind myself, so suck it the fuck up.
I never had anyone before, and I got through most of my life that way, which means I don’t need anyone now. Whatever the thing is between me and the Sinners, I don’t want to rely on it. I don’t want to need it.
Because in my experience, needing something is the quickest way to make sure you lose it.
Shifting my weight on the small, angled mattress, I carefully coach myself back to the state of numbness that has been my friend all these years, my comfort.
The only problem is, once you start to feel, it’s hard to go back to being satisfied with feeling nothing.
It’s late, and even though I can tell my body is still drained, I don’t feel tired. The room doesn’t spin around me like it did earlier after the guys left, and sleep doesn’t reach out of the darkness to drag me under again. I can’t read the clock in the shadows, but I can hear it ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Nothing happens.
I can’t fall asleep, not when I know that the dark places in my unconscious mind are so much more fucking dangerous than my own thoughts.
At least those I can control.
Whether because of the drugs or because of sheer exhaustion, I eventually fall asleep again. I don’t remember it stealing over me, but the next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes to see warm California sunlight pouring through the window.
As I scrub a hand over my face, I pick up the muffled sounds of activity outside my room. The eerie silence from the middle of the night is gone. Now that it’s morning again, the hospital is awake and bustling, full of people coming and going.
A few nurses come and go from my room, offering me breakfast and checking my vitals.
I chose to ignore their stares. I get it—they’re probably not used to dealing with patients who have blue hair and tattoos, but that’s their problem, not mine. If they want to use their fancy degree to help fancy rich people who have great access to health care, then that’s fine. Their choice.
Not saying there are better places to be helping, because everyone needs health care, but still. Can’t imagine very many rich people needing emergency surgeries after a drive-by shooting, needing immediate attention after a drug overdose, or an emergency delivery for a woman who’s been assaulted and unable to afford prenatal care.
Rich people live in a bubble where they never have to worry about that kind of shit.
I might be part of this world of wealth and privilege temporarily, but I don’t belong here, and the understated elegance of the hospital room only drives that point home.
My heart lurches in my chest suddenly as a new thought takes root.
Oh, fuck.
How the hell am I supposed to pay for this?
As I look around the room again, instead of seeing a nice suite with a pretty view of a rooftop garden below, I see dollar signs coming out of everything.
The IV. The night—nights?—I’ve spent here, in this bed in a private room. The meds. The food. The people who come and check on me every five minutes now that it’s not nighttime anymore.
Fuck.