Hospital
It's the only word I can think of to describe how I'm feeling – vivisected. As though someone has cut me open with a scalpel, the pain not sinking in until the flesh begins to separate and my blood bubbles out. I can hear the crack as my ribs are flayed open. Slowly, my organs, wet and sticky, are pulled out of me one at a time. Until I am hollow. Hollow and yet, in excruciating pain – still alive. Still. Alive.
Above me, there are sterile and industrial fluorescent lights. One of the bulbs is threatening to go out and it flickers, buzzes, and struggles to stay alive. I've been transfixed by its Morse code for the last hour. On-off-buzz-buzz-on-off. My eyes hurt. I keep staring. Following along with my own Morse code: Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.
Somewhere, I'm being watched. There's always someone here. There's someone to tug on my various cables. One to watch my heart, another my breathing, one to keep me numb. Don't think about it. Cables. They extend from my hand, where I receive my liquids and my drugs. They wind from my chest to monitor the beating of my heart. Sometimes I hold my breath, just to see if it will stop. Instead, it beats harder and faster in my chest and I gasp for breath. Buzzzzz-on-off.
There's someone who tries to feed me. She tells me her name, but I don't care. She doesn't matter. No one does. Nothing really matters. She asks me my name as though her kindness and gentleness will move me to speak. I never answer. I never eat.
In the corner of my mind, I see something, watching me in the shadows. "Do you really think begging is going to work?" asks Ghost Alec. He smiles.
I cry. Loud, horrible, sounds come out of me, so violent they shake my whole body. I can't make it stop. I want Tom. I get drugs instead. The food comes through a tube while I sleep.
There's always someone watching.
Always.
I want to leave this place. There's nothing wrong with me. If Tom were here, I'd walk out of this place, happy, smiling and complete. But he's gone. And they won't let me grieve for him in peace.
Day 29:
I close my eyes and open them slowly. He is standing over me. My heart races and tears of pure joy flood my eyes. He's finally here. He's finally come for me. His face is warm, his smile broad. There is a familiar tilt to his lips and I know he's thinking something naughty.
A familiar tingle spreads throughout my belly and creeps down toward my pussy making it swell and throb. I haven't had an orgasm in days and I've become very accustomed to them.
"Should I let you go? You look so sexy when you're tied down," he says through a smile.
"I missed you," I try to say. My mouth is unbelievably dry. My tongue feels heavy and dead in my mouth. My lips seem to have fared no better. They are chapped and when I scrape my tongue over my bottom lip, I can't help but think of sandpaper.
The tube they have been using to feed me is crammed up my left nostril and fed down the back of my throat. It itches. I can't scratch it. It hurts. I can't shake it free. I feel it every time I swallow and it tastes of antiseptic.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"For what?" I whisper. I want him to tell me he's sorry for not telling me sooner...that he loves me.
"For the restraints," he says.
I frown. He loves restraints.
"As soon as we can be sure of your mental state, we can remove them."
This is wrong. Really wrong.
It's the drugs.
"Do you know why you're here , Nichole?" a woman asks, softly.
I am not Nichole. I'm not that girl anymore.
"I'm Susan," she says, "The police were able to identify you from your missing person's report. Your friend Chloe reported your abduction. We've been looking for you. Your mother has been very worried."
I'm tempted to speak, so I can tell her to shut the fuck up. I can practically feel my skin crawling. Stop! Stop talking to me. But she won't. There will be more questions, the same questions, and this time I might have to answer them. I know it's the only way they'll let me go. They keep me strapped down and pumped full of drugs; they say I tried to hurt my nurse. I tell them they tried to hurt me first. I never asked to be brought to the hospital. The blood wasn't mine and the original owner wouldn't miss it. I was fairly certain he was dead. I should know – I killed him.
"I know this can't be easy for you. What you've been through..." I hear her swallow. "I can't imagine it," she continues. It reeks of pity and I don't want it. Not from her. She reaches her hand out to touch mine and I instantly recoil. The harsh clang of my hands smacking against the railing of my bed is like a threat of violence. I am more than willing to inflict violence if she tries to touch me again.
She holds up both her hands and steps away. My breathing begins to settle and the black ring surrounding my vision dissipates, until the world is once again in high definition, color. Now that she has drawn my attention, I notice she isn't alone. There is a man with her. He cocks his head and stares at me like I am a riddle he wants to solve. The look is heartbreakingly familiar.
I roll my head toward the window, staring at the light filtering through the horizontal blinds. My stomach clenches. His name whispers through my mind. He used to look at me that way. I wonder why, since he seemed so capable of reading my mind. My body aches. I miss him. I miss him so much. I feel tears again, sliding down the corners of my eyes.
Susan, doesn't relent, "How are you feeling? I've been briefed by the social worker who was present during your initial exam, as well as the events witnessed by the Police Department."
I swallow hard. Memories assault me, but I fight them. This is exactly what I didn't want.
"I know it doesn't seem like it, but I'm here to help you. You're being held on charges of assault against federal border patrol officers, possession of a weapon, resisting arrest, and suspicion of felony murder. I'm here to determine your competency, but also to assist you. I'm sure you have your reasons for what happened, but I can't help you if you won't talk to me. Please, Nichole. Let me help you," Susan says.
My panic is rising. Already my chest is heaving and the world is black around the edges. Tears choke me around the tube in my throat. The pain of the post-this world is endless. I knew it would be.
"Your mother is trying to find someone to take care of your brothers and sisters, so she can come see you," she says.
NO! Stay away.
"She should be here in the next day or two. You can talk to her on the phone if you'd like."
I am whimpering. I want her to stop. I want them all to go away – this woman, the man in the corner, my mother, my siblings, even Chloe. I don't want to hear them. I don't want to see them. Go away, go away, go away.
I scream bloody murder. I won't go back!
I scream. "Help me!" My body wants to curl in on itself but can't. I am bound, like a caged animal on display. They want to know what's wrong, but they will never, and can never understand. I can never tell them. This pain is mine to keep.
I scream and scream and scream until someone rushes in and presses all my magic buttons.
The drugs take over.
I'm fully aware I am in the psych ward of the hospital. I've been told many times. I can't help but laugh inwardly at the irony. They will let me go once I'm able to tell them to release me. But I won't speak. I am literally holding myself hostage. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I belong here.
The bruises on my wrists and ankles are an angry shade of purple. I suppose I fought pretty hard. I miss the restraints. In a way, they allowed me the freedom to writhe and flail. They gave me something and someone to fight against. Without them...I feel like a traitor. No longer a prisoner, I seem to be allowing them to keep me here.
I eat when they bring me food, to keep me from having that fucking tube in my nose. I shower when they say I must. I get back in my bed like a good little girl. I float away with the drugs. Oh, how I love the drugs.
But, they never leave me alone. There is always someone here, watching me like I'm a lab experiment. Whenever the fog of the drugs lifts, they are here: He likes to stare at me. I stare back.
The first one to look away is the loser.
Often, it's me. His glare is unnerving.
In He's eyes I see a familiar determination and a cunning I have never been a match for.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, soft and low.
I feel as though he is telling me I have no choice but to break. Eventually, he'll get what he wants from me. I taunt him with my silence. Sometimes he smirks at me. And then, A name seems much more pronounced.
When I failed to respond, the fingers of his right hand trailed across the underside of my right breast.
On this particular day, he looks away from me first and returns his attention to the laptop in front of him. He types, and then scrolls through information I can't see.
I took a sharp breath and leaned away from his touch, forcing my tightly shut eyes into the skin of my upraised arm.
Slowly he reaches for his briefcase on the ground, next to his chair and pulls out a few brown folders. He opens one and makes some notes while furrowing his brow.
ns 18.68.41.146da2
