Page 52 of The Unraveling

Tears well in my eyes, lip trembling as my weak heart flutters with renewed hope. Nodding, I say, “Yes, please. I want you to cure me, Dr. Todd.”

“Splendid, Isla.” He leans forward against his desk, soft eyes mirroring the excitement I’m sure must shine in mine. “If this treatment works, not only will it heal you, but you will also have a very long, immortal life. No sickness. No fear of dying. Just life.”

Chapter 19

Through Isla and Dr. Todd’s cracked bedroom door, I watch Dr. Smith slowly approach the bedside. He halts when the floor creaks beneath his calculated steps, then continues when Isla’s sickly face shows no sign she heard. I bite back my whine and cover my mouth with my sleeve as a tiny smile caresses Isla’s dry, cracked lips while Dr. Smith leans across her. He secures Dr. Todd’s bare arm, and tears dash from my eyes as he draws it across Isla’s body so it embraces her.

Her chest lowers with a shallow sigh, and thin, scarlet tears trail from beneath her lashes.

My breaths choke me when Dr. Smith retrieves the vial of narcotics and a syringe from his pocket. I fight a battle with my overflowing tears as he administers the only possible treatment left to offer her.

He releases the IV tube and staggers in place before gently placing the empty vial and syringe on the bedside table. Clamping his hand over his mouth, his chest stills like he knows he’ll cry out with the next sound he makes.

My pulse climbs as crimson tears pool in the corner of Isla’s soft smile. I count her tiny breaths, then hold my own as a deep exhale expels from her lungs. I wait for her chest to rise one more time. My own lungs become desperate, and I take a breath before she ever does.

She . . . never does.

My sobs spill out, hiccupping, and I nearly expect my grief to wake her, but she lies still in death. I’m blind with tears, unable to feel my legs as I stand in the hall.

Dr. Smith’s leg buckles before he swiftly turns and sits on the edge of the bed like he’s trying to disguise the fact he nearly fell to his knees.

It feels like I’m the ghost as I drift across the bedroom and crawl past Dr. Smith to collapse beside her.

“Isla,” I gasp as I curl against her side and bury my face in her tangled black hair. She smells like pennies and the stale memory of the perfume she makes with flowers from the backyard each summer.

I know in my stuttering heart that she won’t rouse, but she’s so motionless it’s almost like she’s sleeping. Closing my eyes, it feels like she’s only sleeping.

I hope that’s how death feels for her, too.

Dr. Smith finally releases a guttural, strangled cry. His weight shifts on the mattress like he’s bent over and ready to collapse on the hardwood.

I hum and bite my bottom lip to stifle my own cries, reaching my fingers to her curls to comb them. After a few careful passes where I untangle loose knots, my hand moves through an unnatural length that becomes even longer. I gasp with horror, eyes wide, and jolt up with a strangled cry.

A length of her hair has fallen out—caught between my fingers.

Dr. Smith twists to gape at me with sorrow weighing down his dampened face.

“Her hair,” I choke out, staring at it wrapped around my hand. Climbing panic squeezes my chest. “She loves her hair.”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Smith breathes as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He carefully slips the strands from between my trembling fingers to entwine them back with her curls.

I felt like a monster when I accepted that a graceful, medicated death was best for Isla. I helped Dr. Smith fabricate a scenario where she would slip into bed with Dr. Todd on her own, all so Dr. Smith could end her suffering. But knowing she didn’t live through her own hair falling out lightens the guilt a smidge.

There’s no point keeping her alive just so she can fall apart, bit by broken bit, until her heart fails like Dr. Todd’s did. As much as I wanted her breaths, it would only be cruel since they would be spent confused and asking for a husband who is hours past dead.

Dr. Smith called the king’s men to discuss it—to get their approval, he said—but I could sense he simply wanted them to take the burden of choice off his shoulders.

The man on the phone said euthanasia would be the most humane thing for her.

Patting my arm, Dr. Smith’s tortured eyes level with mine as he says, “I’m sorry, but you must come out of the room. You can’t lie here with them. Understand, Victor’s been dead a lot longer . . .”

A sob bubbles out of me, but I give him a nod of comprehension. I gaze down at Isla, past the deep scarlet streaking her face, and conclude—even if it’s a grief-filled delusion—she looks peaceful. My tears patter against her face as I lean down and press a kiss to the soft flesh of her still-warm forehead.

“Love you,” I whisper.

I sniffle and straighten, then brush my hand across Dr. Todd’s cold arm. A tremor trails down my spine at the slight stiffness to it, but I still give it an affectionate squeeze and tell him I love him, too.

Dr. Smith’s hand between my shoulder blades comes as a soft, unspoken request, so I turn and sniffle hard before shuffling toward the edge of the bed. I stare at the hardwood, not convinced I’ll be able to stand.