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“What?” Misha asks. I don’t think Aura hears him.
“I’ll send you a pin. I’ll see you there,” she says, hanging up as soon as she does.
My stomach twists as we walk toward the car. If I hadn’t pulled over, would we have found Aura still in the house? If I hadn’t done what I did, would Trine be okay? I don’t want to think about it.
Misha clicks on the keyfob, the lights flashing as the car unlocks. And then we’re driving, though I don’t think any of us quite know where we’re going yet.
TRINE?
When I come to, the first thing I register is the smell.
It smells so clean. Slightly acidic and lemony, which surprises me. Then I realize that I can't move and I'm afraid, jerking my hands up as I try to reorient myself.
I can hear voices outside the room, and my gaze darts around in a panic. The last thing I remember is the way the seatbelt cut into my throat, the smell of blood and the taste of copper. I’m definitely not in a car anymore.
I’ve been hospitalized before, but I’ve never woken up in a hospital, and it’s an experience I would rather not have again. I manage to think that as my gaze flits around the room, to the bag hooked into my arm to the electrical monitor that beeps rhythmically.
The bed is comfortable, which feels strange. Everything is comfortable, and it only takes me a second to realize that’s probably the drugs.
I have to be super fucking high to be taking this in stride, and right now, my interest seems mostly intellectual.
The view from the window to my left is beautiful, a city peppered with short buildings and a gorgeous tree line, washed in sunshine. At least I think so. I’m not going to get up and find out.
I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. And I definitely don’t want to.
I stop looking at the window, trying to take in the rest of my surroundings instead. The hospital room is bright, probably because of the sunlight streaming through the window. Everything in here is either white or blue. The room itself, I notice, is surprisingly big.
Airy, even.
The temperature is perfect. Warm. Verging on cozy.
Maybe I should go back to sleep. It would be so easy to go back to sleep…I resist the urge, despite how much I want to cave. People are probably worried about me. My mom is probably worried.
I called her, didn’t I? I remember calling her.
I'm not in pain, but I am hooked up to a myriad of machines. My mouth is dry, and each one of my movements takes a monumental amount of effort. Even trying to yawn or stretch elicits something that borders on pain, but it’s more like discomfort.
I’m sure that’s gonna fucking suck later.
I close my eyes, breathing deeply as I tell myself not to freak out. It’d be so easy to just go under again, not fight anymore, come to when I come to. Future Trine can worry about all this.
About my mom, about the exorcists, about the accident itself…But I’m not a fucking coward, and I don’t lose, so even the fact that I find the thought of that incredibly tempting is making me angry.
Upset. Nauseous.
Everything about the way I feel right now makes me want to throw up. Not metaphorically–physically. That probably also has something to do with the medication I’m doubtlessly on. But I don't, because I am wearing crisp new clothes, even if those soft new clothes are just a hospital gown and grippy socks.
Fisting my hands at my sides, I tell myself that I need to call for help. People are probably waiting right outside this door at this very moment. “Hello?“ I shout, but there's nobody there.
Maybe I’m wrong. There doesn’t seem to be anyone there, the only sound in the room the beeping monitor hooked up to my arm. If no one’s going to come help, maybe I should just let myself fall asleep. It would be easier than dealing with this.
I close my eyes, warmth washing over me from the IV hooked up to my veins, and I tilt my head back on the pillow as I try to lose myself in the comfort of whatever sedative I'm obviously under the influence of. After a few seconds of this, I blink, and when I close my eyes again, I see him, even though I'm absolutely positive I’m not asleep.
The man. The man from my dreams.
I can’t really see him. He’s hidden behind thick smoke, swirling in front of his silhouette. But even though I can’t see him, I know that he’s concerned. Worried about me. I’m as certain of that as I am of the fact that I’m in the hospital, that I’m awake.
“Are you okay?“ he asks. He normally sounds so assertive, it’s hard for me to reconcile the concerned note in his voice.
