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“Later,” she concludes with a very final tone.
I like the nurse. I like how she stands like a rock between me and the cop. Trying to speak doesn’t result in anything as my tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth, so I stay quiet.
Pretending to still be asleep proves to be a blessing. I listen to feet coming and going, but for the most part I’m being left alone. It sounds as if I’m still in the ER and when I carefully peek at my surroundings, I notice I’m behind a curtain and no one’s by my side. I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but when the drowsiness subsides, my mind starts clearing. I’m frozen inside, the night playing on repeat. I was nearly murdered. Every time I skirt that realization it’s like something stabs my chest, ice cold hurt, fear, disappointment. Suddenly the thought strikes me that I’m not safe here and with a jolt I realize that I can’t talk to the cop. If these men are who I think they are, I really, really can’t talk to the cops. If I’m on a hit list now, I can only imagine how fundamentally doomed I’ll be if I talk.
Not that it probably makes any difference, but still. And I definitely don’t trust the cops to be able to protect me. I’ve heard too many stories about witness protection failing.
My chest aches in sorrow over my lost life as I begin to take stock of my arms and legs. They haven’t removed my jeans or my bra. I’m dressed in a pale blue hospital paper gown, a blanket pulled up to my chin. I shudder from an inner chill I can’t seem to curb. There’s an IV line in my arm. No electrodes on my chest. Nothing that will set off an alarm.
Glancing around me, I tear a strip off the gown, pull out the catheter from my arm and wrap the strip around the little wound. I twitch when I look at my hands, scraped, bloody and swollen. My throat hurts, my back, my legs—knees especially. I’m afraid to see what the rest of me looks like. Swinging my legs over the edge of the gurney, I look for my shirt, jacket and shoes, and thank God, everything lies in a basket under the gurney. I fight the groan that wants to escape as I struggle to get back into my clothes, then I hold my breath, my heart thudding, as I peek out between the curtains. No one seems to be looking in my direction. People rush around, alarms beep.
The exit is only a corridor down and, squeezing between first responders who come rushing with a stretcher with a man covered in blood, and the wall, I exit through the ambulance garage, and quietly leave the ER.
It’s still night, but the birds in the nearby park have started singing so I’m guessing dawn is near.
Finally alone, it strikes me full on what I’ve been through and I begin to tremble violently. I stumble into the dark park, barely sparing a thought as to whether it is stupid or not, fall on all fours on the lawn and then curl up into a shaking little ball under some bushes. I clutch my aching hands into tight fists and choke the cry that wants to escape.
I need to get home.
No, I shouldn’t go home, they’ll find me there.
If I go to my parents, or friends, I’ll put them in danger.
My mind spins and I ache, raw sorrow and fright tearing a hole inside my chest.
I can’t let anyone know.
I should leave town.
I press my fists to my chest to try to control the panic that’s threatening to take over any rational thought.
Where would I go? I have everything here. I don’t have a single friend or relative anywhere else in the world. I can’t just up and leave. I don’t even own a car.
Christian must be out of commission, maybe even dead. A stab of pain makes me double over. I liked him. I really, really wanted to explore the enticing madness that meeting him was. It was unlike anything else I had ever experienced.
It turned out he only wanted to fuck his kill.
Choking down the cry, swallowing over and over, I fight to push it away. No use dwelling, no matter how much it hurts.
So with Christian not after me… how long before someone else comes?
A part of me wants to stay curled up in the piss-stinking bushes of this park forever. No one knows I’m here. I’d be safe. But of course that’s not an option. I have to get home and see to my wounds, the visible and the invisible.
I have nothing. No money. No phone. No ID. I do have my house keys, though, thank God, buried deep in my jeans pocket.
It takes about forty minutes to walk from here. Thank you, cheating motherfucker Evan, thank you alimony and my desire to live close to the vibrant city life. It’s completely doable.
Taking stock of the dark park, the lit street outside the low iron fence, still heavily trafficked despite the late hour, I decide to stick to the side streets.
Everything aches. I must have twisted my ankle. My knees, elbows and palms itch and sting, my throat feels constricted, as if I have his hands around it still. I shudder every time my thoughts skirt Christian. My hurting body is a powerful reminder of how beaten up I am, but my heart hasn’t even begun to grasp what happened. I see him before me as my feet steer me home, the limp getting worse and worse. I see him smiling, strong, sensual, and I see him vengeful, a vicious grin on his lips, eyes that radiate hate.
When I’m about to enter my street, I’m exhausted beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. I scan the silent sidewalks, my side, opposite side, try to see through the shadows, if a gun glints, if something moves. Finally I decide I have to take the chance. Maybe they don’t know yet that I’m still alive? Maybe I’ll have a respite before someone comes for me? And when they do, I’ll have a plan. Ihaveto have a plan.
I make use of the very last of my energy and run-limp the last few yards, unlock my front door with violently trembling hands, and sink down on the floor inside it as soon as I’ve slammed it closed and locked it.
I sit there, empty, staring at nothing, listening to the absolute silence. The sound of a gunshot plays on repeat in my mind, and I twitch every time I relive it. I shot a person. I shot someone I cared about, someone I shouldn’t have cared about, but I didn’t know that.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I wince with every step. I clamp my eyes closed from the harsh white light as I flick the switch on the wall. Even my fingertips are sore. I glance at my hand that still rests on the switch, and realize most of my nails are broken.
