Page 13 of Filthy Disciple


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“Oh, wow. That’s plenty. I’ll bring you change. Sign these, please. I’ll be right back,” she assures me, setting the papers down as I try to force a smile I’m not feeling.

What is happening to me?

My life is spiraling out of control, and I’m now reduced to bribing nurses to get me clothes because mine are not wearable. I’ve sunk to a new low, which almost makes me laugh—how have I gotten to this point?

“This will all pass,” I tell the room like it cares. Like anyone cares.

I can’t help but notice Charlie hasn’t messaged me in all the time I’ve been gone…

Picking up the pen, I sign all the pages, flipping back and forth, hoping I can find who covered my bill, but if itwasthe cutie, he paid in cash and there’s no name—damn it.

I set the papers down and grab the bag, dumping my clothes and shoes on the floor. “Jesus Christ!” I croak, immediately stuffing them back in.

Garbage in the sun smells better than my things.

The nurse strides in with a kind smile. “Okay, here you go.” Her nose wrinkles in distaste at the stench around me.

“Please, tell me you got me some pants too?” I plead, looking at the large plastic gift bag.

“I did,” she says, passing me the bag, along with my change. “Flip-flops, too.”

“Thank you. And please make sure you take the hundred.” I motion to the money she’s trying to leave.

“No, you needed help. I’m happy I could do it for you.” She nods, picking up the discharge papers and handing me my copy.

“Please.” I start to untie the hospital gown from my neck. “Take the hundred. You earned it.”

She hesitates but accepts the money.

“Thank you. My friend is coming for me.”

“Good. I’ll get a wheelchair for you and we can wait for them in the lobby.”

She’s barely out of the door when I pull on a black T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, which have Los Angeles going down the right leg.

When I slip into the flip-flops and take a deep, contented breath, I’m surprised by how wonderful it feels to be out of the hospital gown.

As I walk slowly into the bathroom, my boobs jiggle. They’re huge, and I desperately need a bra, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Flipping on the light, I almost scream at what stares back at me.

“Christ.”

Morbidly, I lean forward because I’m so pale my blue eyes look like they’re about to pop out of my head, not to mention the dark circles that make me resemble a zombie.

My blonde hair is ratted and crunchy from puke, I guess.

But I look as bad as I feel—just turning on the faucet is a chore. After splashing cold water on my face, I pull my hair up into a messy bun using the hair band on my wrist.

A small tap makes me grab ahold of the sink. “Ms. Davis?”

“Yes?” I call out.

“Your friends are here. I have the wheelchair when you’re ready.”

Knowing better than to try to argue with her that I can walk, I accept that, with how beat up I feel, maybe the wheelchair is not such a bad idea.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

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