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“Don’t… touch me,” she croaks, and I freeze, realizing my hand is outstretched. I drop it to my side, perch on the edge of the mattress, and she watches me with glassy eyes. “Sorry, I’m just… hurting.”
She’s hooked up to a portable IV machine that also tracks her vitals, and I glance up, noting the spike in her heart rate.
“Was the doctor here? Maybe I need to ask him to up your morphine dosage.”
“No,” she replies quickly, the word shooting from her mouth like a hockey puck launched across an ice rink. “It’s not... I can manage, I think.”
I study her battered face, a sinister sensation gripping the chambers of my heart and squeezing tight, refusing to let go.
Her eyes dart to a plastic cup on the nightstand, and I reach over, bending the straw and holding it so she can take a drink. She raises up slightly, wincing, and swallows with what looks like a massive effort before dropping back onto the pillow with a harsh exhale.
“My… throat hurts.”
Nodding, I replace the cup and fold my hands in my lap. “Dr. Anderson said it likely would. You’ll need to rest and drink clear fluids as it heals.”
She blinks, sadness and pain washing over her features, though her eyes remain dry and unfeeling. “What… happened to me?”
Scratching at the back of my neck, wincing when I scrape my nails across the cuts Fiona left on me a few hours ago, I hesitate. “I don’t know if we should—”
“It was Mom… wasn’t it?” When I don’t say anything, she scoffs, pinching her eyes closed. “I knew it.”
A twinge of grief rattles my chest, the feeling of betrayal all too relatable. Somehow, it’s the disappointments you expect that hurt the worst, like your worst nightmares coming to fruition.
Riley’s eyelids begin to droop, the conversation appearing to take its toll on her traumatized body; she sighs, pulling the white covers up to her chin, and closes her eyes.
“Are… you gonna… send me back?” she whispers, not daring to look at me.
The twinge expands into a full-blown throb, the muscles inside shriveling beneath the pain as it lances straight to my heart, prodding the spoiled organ.
Fear makes a home in my gut, pinching my nerves as tight as it can, and I let out a sigh, struggling to maintain a grip on my control as it withers into nothing.
“No,” I whisper, swallowing over the lump in my throat.
This time, I mean it.
