Page 6 of I’ll Find You

What bothers me the most is that he says it with unearned confidence. His father’s name holds enough clout to make up for his shortcomings. The title already belonging to him, waiting there for him just to pick up and take, handed over to him on a silver platter. But the worst part is that he believes it. His arrogance, entitlement, and the way that he tosses around his father’s name is unbelievably annoying. Maybe it’s because I had to crawl through hell for every inch of ground I stand on. I had to prove over and over again that I belong in this field. Or maybe it’s because I know how actual loss feels, and the struggle to pull yourself up and carry on, and the worst, the cost of it all. Or maybe it’s that there is nothing I despise more than someone who has been handed everything and still doesn’t appreciate any of it.

I have had to work for everything I have, and I still do. Nothing in my life has ever been handed to me. I’ve never had any safety nets besides what I had for college and medical school. No family wealth to fall back on, or a legacy name to open doors for me. Just like tonight. Maxwell went out with our roommates and a handful of other students after our study session at the library ended.

“I need to blow off some steam, Rose. You need to let loose, baby. You're too serious.” I snort as I mimic his words aloud. They play on repeat in my mind, making stabbing micropunctures beneath my skin as he sprinkles the salt on top.

He has a family with money, connections, and a future pre-built for him. I don’t have that luxury, so I can’t afford to slip or be anything but perfection. I have worked my ass off to get where I am, and I won’t screw it up for a night of partying. So here I am. Alone in my bedroom, one that we occasionally share, but thankfully, we each have our own room when we signed the lease on it, or Maxwell’s father did. We hadn’t made things official at that point, and I prefer my privacy anyway.

A mug of hot tea cools on the bedside table as I study for Monday morning’s surgical cases. While they are out drinking, I’m going over surgical anatomy, pathophysiology, and pre- and post-operative patient care until my eyes burn. “Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll even get to close an incision,” I mumble to myself as my eyes become heavy with exhaustion. Perhaps someone will bestow me that moment to shine. I’ve been practicing, and I can’t wait to do it on something other than a pig’s foot.

I yawn.

I’m waiting for them to grill me on post-operative complications and how I would respond to them. I’ll know the questions before they ask them because I’ve prepared, reciting them aloud over and over. For me, there is no room for error. All I have is my work, my discipline, and my refusal to let my past repeat itself.

I gather my books, placing them neatly in a stack with the edges perfectly aligned with the titles facing me. I scoot over in bed, putting my headphones on my bedside table. Strands of hair fall out of my once neat bun. But order and routine can only distract me for so long before my thoughts slip back to what really interests me.

The human body has always fascinated me. It's a beautifully designed machine, capable of defending itself and healing in ways that never cease to amaze me. When you’re sick, an immune response occurs, raising its own army against the invasion. If you get a temperature, a fever ignites beneath in a warning flare, trying to rid the body of the infection. Pain signals damage and distress so that repair can begin. Bruises bloom in purplish hues, then fade away until normal. Broken bones fuse once again. Skin tears then knits itself. The body fights for you until the very end, or until it can’t fight any longer.

But the mind? The mind is a vicious traitor. I close my eyes as the silence of the house surrounds me. With no one else home, the quiet should be comforting. Instead, it leaves me alone with my thoughts as sleep threatens to pull me under, circling the same memories no matter how hard I push them away.

There is no immune response for trauma. No scalpel sharp enough to cut it out. No suture strong enough to close what memory keeps tearing open. I rub a hand over my face before switching off the bedside lamp and pulling the covers closer. You can bury the past beneath routines, work, and sheer determination, but the mind hoards every wound. It keeps them hidden until the lights go out, when they find their way back to the surface.

The sound of a door closing jolts me awake. The middle of the night is when I'm most vulnerable. When exhaustion lowers my guard and strips away the armor I've spent years building, that's when the memories crawl out. They force their way back through every scream, every nightmare, and every frantic beat of my heart. The images I thought I'd buried, the hands I escaped, and the voices I prayed I'd never hear again send me bolting upright in bed, a sheen of sweat coating my skin as I struggle to remember where I am.

I hear the creaking stairs as heavy footsteps come closer, and giggling continues as my roommates make their way to their bedrooms. It’s all there, my worst memories ready to strike the moment I think I’m safe. My surroundings come rushing back as I begin to scan the room, remembering where I am. But it’s just a bad dream. A recurring nightmare that highlights every moment I’ve felt utterly powerless. The images buried in the deepest corners of my mind, things that only come alive in the nighttime hours, when I am at my weakest. As much as I try to forget about them, they’re always there. The body heals, but the mind remembers. Some wounds will never close. Once again, I get comfortable in bed, but sleep evades me.

My breathing stills as the sound of the bedroom door creaks open. At first, I think I imagined it, but then a silhouette lurches into view. He staggers in, shoulders slumped, and one hand dragging against the wall as he attempts to hold himself up. My lungs seize as I sit up in bed with a distant memory rising from the shadows. I hold onto the sheet tightly. Its thin, flimsy material is clenched in a death grip between my fingers and held outward as a useless shield in my fists.

“No. Not again. Not him. Not him,” I whimper, and he whips his head over in my direction. But my heart doesn’t care about logic. It only remembers the past I’m stuck in. He turns his head toward me, sluggish and disoriented until his glassy, unfocused eyes find mine. A predatory smile slithers across his face. The kind of drunk that someone at a club might mistake for charm, and turns dangerous the moment you get too close. He sways, then stumbles for the bed. I shrink back instinctively, curling into myself, and hate that this childhood reflex has returned despite having thought I’d outgrown it. His weight dips the mattress as he leans toward me. His breathing comes rough and uneven, as if it took a great effort to get to me. Then the smell comes next—alcohol, sweat, something sour and unclean. It hits me like a punch to the gut. My eyes widen.

“It’s not him. It’s not him. He’s dead. He’s dead.” I repeat the mantra under my breath, clinging to it like an anchor to keep from being dragged beneath the weight of my memories. But my mind refuses to accept what I know is true. It isn't him. He leans in, his breath warm against my cheek, and panic crashes through me. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. He mistakes my trembling for an invitation. My father's face surges to the surface of my mind, along with the reason my mother fled with me all those years ago.

My body tenses, screaming.

Mayday! Mayday!

He fumbles closer, lips grazing mine. Then, with a clammy cold press against mine, he sticks his tongue out, which sends a shock of ice down my spine. My mind disconnects. My body is here, but my mind is back there with that helpless little girl. I’m once again trapped in that recurrent nightmare with a man who wore a similar smile, the same stink of liquor, and the same monstrous self-entitlement. He tries to crawl close, but I flinch away hard, smacking my head with his as I try to pry myself away. Pain sparks across my vision, bright and hot, before I open my eyes just in time to see him thrown off-balance. He tumbles over in a graceless heap. He’s too drunk to catch himself.

A loud thud hits the floor and my whole body jerks at the sound. I flip the covers off and step out of bed; my pulse thuds in my ears. Then I hear deep, guttural snores coming from the opposite side of the room. I look over the edge of the mattress and find Maxwell sprawled on the carpet, limbs twisted awkwardly. It gives me some relief to know that he passed out facedown, so that I don’t have to turn him to prevent him from asphyxiating on his vomit.

I grab the throw blanket draped over my chair and toss it over him in a half-ass attempt to make him more comfortable. He won’t feel it now, but he’ll wake up sore, I’m sure. There is no way I'm sleeping in this room now. The smell of alcohol radiating off him, along with his snores sawing through the silence, ensures that there is no chance for sleep in here. I’ll be lucky if I sleep outside of his room two doors down.

I gather up my things with shaking hands and pull the door closed behind me. I head to his bedroom and thankfully find it unlocked. I slide inside, turn on the lamp, and lock it. Setting my things on his nightstand, I pull back the covers of his bed as exhaustion finally overtakes me. But something on the bookshelves catches my eye, piquing my curiosity. I turn my head toward it. A teddy bear sits perched on the shelf, beside a row of Stephen King novels. Misery lies battered with frayed edges, having seen more than its fair share of reads. I pick up the teddy bear. Its fur is matted, and one button eye is cracked. I run my thumb over it and smile at the image of a young Maxwell clutching this bear in the crook of his arm at night. He’s not a bad person, just an arrogant man with a sense of entitlement. I’m the one with a traumatic past.

When I turn it around, my smile dies. Something else is odd. The innocent, soft, stuffed toy doesn’t just feel out of place in this room, but it’s when I feel a slight give of the fabric that my body reacts. My breath picks up, and I notice a hole in its underside. It’s small and carefully cut, not a rip from a much-loved toy. And something metallic glints within, catching the lamp’s light. A chill races down my spine. I slip my finger into the opening, and something sharp grazes my skin. I fish it out with my finger. I hold it up immediately, knowing what it is, but looking confused about why it’s there. It’s a black polished nail with silver hearts—my breath catches. I reach inside again, because I have to. I have to know if this was just one random item, but something in my gut tells me it isn’t. This time, when I reach in, my fingers brush something thin and fragile. I carefully remove a gold necklace.

My heartbeat pounds too loudly in the quiet room. So many questions swarm through my mind. Is it an old girlfriend’s? If so, why keep it? Maybe it holds some sentimental value to him, and he placed it in his childhood bear for safekeeping. I kept a rabbit for years, and it is still at my aunt’s house in my old room, probably still on the bed where I left it.

“Not tonight,” I mutter, placing the beat-up stuffed toy back on the shelf. And definitely not when my mind is already racing from memories of my past. I could very well be conjuring up an illusion. Convincing myself there's something here that isn't. I ensure the items are hidden in the bear and set it back exactly where it was. I feel dizzy and tired, so I must be imagining things. This time, I walk to the bed and slide beneath the covers. The clock’s digital eyes glow red, like they’re watching me, so I turn it facedown. I may be paranoid, but there’s a reason for it, seeing the worst in humanity and encountering things way too old for my years will do that to a person. My hands move on autopilot as I set my phone’s alarm so I don’t miss class. But sleep doesn’t come. Deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.

Chapter

Five

Alex

My fingers hover over Uncle Jameson's contact. I need a break. I haven't absorbed a single word I've read. One tap and he'll answer, but that will raise questions. More importantly, I don't want him telling my parents. With anyone else, he wouldn't think twice, but they all know about Rose. They know what she means to my father, though none of them will ever explain why. Whatever happened between them belongs to a past no one in my family talks about. So I don't hit it.

I set the phone facedown on the table where my book lay spread out before me, and drag both hands over my face, pressing my palms into my eyes until fireworks fly behind my lids. It does nothing to undo this knot in my chest. I haven't been able to find Rose despite searching everywhere I can think of. Not a glimpse of her. Not even someone who resembles her. Still, I know fate is waiting. I'll find her. I have to.