Page 47 of Hate You Most

“You need to remain calm, Ms. Volkova. I understand that this is frustrating.”

“Oh. Oh, you understand, do you?” She almost laughed. The doctor didn't understand anything, and certainly not how she was feeling. “You're not the one that can't remember anything, with a head that feels like it is ripping apart!”

“Where is the pain, Ms. Volkova?” The doctor asked, and in an instant her bed had been turned horizontal and people flooded the room.

“Back of my head. Is ripping my brain apart.”

“Would you say it's more persistent than a normal headache?”

“Yes.” The words barely left her mouth before the doctor nodded and turned away.

“Prep her for imaging, there may be increased intracranial pressure that's been missed on previous scans.”

Viktoriya frowned. That phrase meant nothing to her, but the way it was said made something cold settle in her chest.

“Increased what?” she asked.

The doctor paused, finally looking at her again. “Fluid around the brain can build up after trauma. It can cause pressure, pain, and increased disorientation about time and place.”

“So you’re saying I don't have amnesia?”

“You do,” he replied. “But this may have aggravated the symptoms. There's no way to tell without doing imaging first. If there is excess fluid, we'll place a shunt during surgery, and your symptoms will likely reside."

Hands moved around her again, adjusting the bed, checking monitors. Someone tugged at her wrist. Someone else lifted her head just enough to slide something cold beneath it.

“No,” Viktoriya said. The word came out sharper than she meant it to, but it cut through the room all the same. “I said no.”

The doctor looked down at her, mildly surprised. “Ms. Volkova⁠—”

“No more tests,” she said, her breathing coming too fast. “No scans. No surgery. I don’t want anything else, I want to go home!”

“This isn’t optional,” he said, still calm. “If there’s excess fluid around your brain we need to drain it.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “I don't consent to surgery, I'm not doing it.”

The room went eerily quiet.

There was a distinct heat behind her eyelids, a tightness that crawled up the back of her skull and tried to split her open from the inside.

“I’m not doing it,” she repeated. “I want to go home.”

The doctor exhaled slowly, the way people did when they were deciding how much effort someone was worth. Then he turned—not to Viktoriya, but past her.

“As Ms. Volkova’s emergency contact and as her spouse,” he said, “you’re authorized to give consent on her behalf. Given her current disorientation and cognitive impairment, she’s not able to do so herself. We need your consent to proceed with imaging and possibly with surgery.”

Viktoriya froze. The words hit harder than any pain.

She turned her head slowly, as moving too quickly made the pain at the back of her skull explode like fireworks. Dakota stood near the wall, arms crossed tight over her chest, her face pale.

Dakota—her rival, and her spouse. They weren't just living together, they were married. That's why she was on her emergency contact list, and why she was now deciding what happened to her. Viktoriya had lost any form of control.

“No,” Viktoriya said, louder then. “You don’t get to ask her. Ask me.”

Dakota’s eyes locked onto hers.

“She’s not in a state to decide,” the doctor said, already writing something down. “The pain alone⁠—”

“I can decide, I’m right here, I can decide!”