I’ve made it a personal mission not to think about the appointment I shared with the doctor. Actually, a lot of the bullshit I’ve experienced in this castle has been pushed to the back of my mind. None of it has really been good apart from a few occasions involving roofs, chains, and narcotics shoved up my ass. But here I find myself thinking back to that moment with the doctor. He gave me the full rundown of the contraceptive he was putting into my arm, and at the end, he was kind enough to leave me a bag full of first aid supplies in case I found myself in a shitty situation, and hell, if this ain’t a shitty situation then I don’t know what is.
If I could somehow get over there, reach up to the high cupboard he left the bag in, then I’d be able to clean myself up. Hopefully there are some strong painkillers in there to ease the ache that’s completely overtaken my body. I’d give anything for a morphine smoothie, just to be able to lay back on this fucked-up little surgical table for ten minutes without feeling the gut-wrenching pain that’s overloaded my body for the past twenty-four hours.
My eyes rest on the high cupboard, devastation heavy in my chest. Getting from here to there is so much harder than it ought to be. My body has reached exhaustion, and here I am, willing it to keep going, to keep fighting, to find relief knowing that if I were to get caught, I’d pay for it with my life.
The straps have been left loose, but they’re still too tight to easily slip out of. If I had the energy, I could wriggle free, but at what cost? The stitches deep inside my stomach are bound to tear and the rest of the cuts and bruises covering my body are going to scream until I stop moving. Not to mention, the only way out of this is by sliding to the bottom of the table and dropping to the ground. After getting thrown around in the car wreck and having Roman drag me through the woods, my body isn’t going to forgive me for allowing further torture.
But what choice do I have? Staying here and suffering like one of their many victims isn’t something I am capable of doing. Sure, I may run at every chance I get, but running means I’m also fighting. Hell, they didn’t want to keep me around because of my ‘yes boss’ attitude. They like my fiery personality, they like when I fight them at every turn, and they sure as fuck love it when I tell them no … especially Marcus.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and think of small thoughts. I suck in my barely-there stomach and after mentally preparing myself, I start wriggling, cursing myself as the pain comes back in full force. Every little movement has the stitches pulling inside me, tearing and popping as tears immediately fill my eyes, but I don’t dare stop. I push myself harder, knowing that if I were to stop now, I’d never see it through to the end. It’s like giving yourself a Brazilian wax, you just have to go for it. Otherwise, you’re spread-eagle on your bathroom floor, one foot propped on the bathtub, the other on the toilet with wax stuck to your coochie, tears in your eyes, and regret heavy in your heart.
“Just tear it off like a Band-Aid,” I mutter to myself, trying to find the will to carry on.
Inching my way down the table, my hips and shoulders get stuck on the straps and I’m forced to twist to free them. “Ahh, fuck,” I whimper, the movement sending searing pain shooting through my stomach but I push through, having gone way too far to even consider giving up now.
My ass is freed and as my head slips under the first strap, I exhale a breath of relief. I’m nearly there. So fucking close. I can taste freedom. Hell, I don’t even know what my version of freedom is right now, but anything other than being strapped to this table is a huge win.
I get through the bottom strap and just as expected, I fall straight off the end of the surgical bed, dropping like a heavy sack of shit without a shred of energy to keep myself balanced. Breathy whimpers, gasps and pants fill the room and I do what I can to hold them back.
Pushing through the agony, I flip to my knees and ignore the blood pooling on the ground beneath me. My knees slip in the blood as the deep cuts on my back scream for relief. I’m almost positive that wriggling down the table would have opened the cuts again, but that’s the least of my problems. If I somehow survive this, then I can focus on getting myself the help I desperately need.
Reaching the side of the room, my fingers lock onto the small desk the doctor had been sitting at during our appointment. With every last ounce of strength I possess, I pull myself up as pained groans and grunts fill the room. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to keep myself as quiet as possible, knowing even the slightest noise would alert the boys, even despite Levi pounding into his drums upstairs. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the brothers had set up some kind of surveillance in here, making sure their little play toy stays exactly where they left her.
My feet shake as I get them under me, and I fear even the smallest movement would have me toppling over, so I keep one hand gripped firmly to the desk as my gaze lifts high above me to the cupboard containing all the goods.
Letting out a shaky breath, I reach up on my tippy toes, whimpering as the ache burns through my stomach. I’m so close. I will not give up now.
My head spins but I push myself further, fighting for everything I am until my fingers are finally gripping onto the bottom of the cupboard. Tears rest in my eyes, blurring my vision as I struggle to get my fingers under the door. Clenching my jaw, I push through the pain, forcing myself up higher until the door finally comes open. Without wasting another second, I grip onto the bag and yank it out, letting it tumble to my feet. The exhaustion hits me and I collapse into a bloodied heap along with it.
My back slams against the lower cupboards as the tears fall from my eyes, crashing against my chest and mixing with the dried blood. I take three slow breaths, desperate to relieve the ache and give myself just a moment of peace before forcing myself through hell all over again.
The seconds tick by painfully slow, and before I know it, I’m gripping onto the small white bag and fumbling with the zipper. The contents spill out onto my lap, just as my guts will be doing if I don’t hurry up and get my shit together.
Painkillers fall from my lap onto the stained tiles and I scoop them up like a junkie desperate for her next hit. My fingers shake as I try to get the little container open and instantly hate myself when they spill out onto the ground. Grabbing three, I pop them into my mouth and cringe as I swallow them dry.
My breathing becomes labored as my movement drains all my energy, but I’ll push myself until I physically can’t go on. Collecting every bandage in sight, I get to work, starting with my stomach. I bite down on my lip as I press the bandage to my skin, applying pressure to try and ease the bleeding. Blood instantly seeps through the bandage and I double up, needing to save some for the cuts on my legs, arms, and back.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Apply pressure. Groan.
Tears stream down my face and I’m forced to bite the back of my arm to muffle my scream as the agony becomes too much.
I repeat the process until there are no bandages left before finding alcohol wipes to quickly clean the dried blood staining my skin. It’s been a few hours since the boys’ last visit and I know my time is limited. If I can at least get out of this room and hide out somewhere long enough to regain some of my energy, I might just have a fighting chance.
Picking up the last alcohol wipe, I hear a soft clatter as something falls to the tiles beneath. Glancing down, I find a small sterile blade that must have been hidden beneath the mess of bandages, wipes, and supplies. My gaze locks on it for a long moment, staring at it as though it’s daring me to pick it up.