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“The families have settled this,” he says.
Of course they have. It’s all about protecting the family names, protecting him . . . why aren’t they protectingme?
Lies. Betrayal. Abandonment.
It suddenly dawns on me that my perception of hospitals is all wrong. Hospitals are cold, sterile, and filled with sickness and death. Hospitals are supposed to be healing, but instead I’m lying here and feeling infected by the deceit and manipulation around me. Hospitals are cruel and unforgiving. Hospitals are where hope goes to die.
“Get out.” The machine starts beeping even faster and my breathing mirrors the sound.
“What?” My mother is confused.
“You heard me. Get out!” Piercing pain shoots across my forehead and a moan slips out. My hand moves to cover my face; I don’t want them to look at me. I don’t want anyone to see me.
Oh, God, can’t you just make it all go away?
“Come on, let’s let her sleep,” my father says.
The legs of a chair scrape across the floor as my mother stands up. Through my heavy breathing and with my face hidden, I listen and track their movement across my room. There’s a soft click as the door closes. I’m left alone, and in more ways than one. Along with my misperception of hospitals, I’ve come to see who my parents really are. They’re selfish and vain, and I want nothing to do with any part of them. I’m done being their pawn. I’m done with them all.
Alone.
Strangely, I find comfort in this, and I get a glimpse of what my life is going to be like after all this is over. I’ve planned my future and it’s finally time to move on from what this will become—my past. No guilt, no questions, no more.
Two months. That’s what I have left of this life.
Two months left to endure, two months for the physical wounds to heal.
Two months till New York and if I have my way . . . I’m never looking back.
White horror blankets Ash’s face, before it turns red with fury. Sliding out from under me, he gets out of bed and starts pacing the room. He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly and squeezes his eyes shut. Stopping to stand at the foot of the bed, he puts his hands on his hips, and stares at me.
“He almost killed you?” His voice is deep with distress.
I sit up and watch him. “Yes,” I whisper and he doesn’t move.
“Who found you?” he asks.
“Our parents. I tried to get away from him. I had pulled my phone out and somehow dialed my father before he hit me from behind and I dropped it. He heard what was happening, located me through a GPS tracker, and my parents raced home. His and mine, they all found us.”
Mumbling expletives to himself, he starts pacing the room again.
“You should have pressed charges.” He glances at me, breathing heavily.
“Maybe, but I didn’t. I never wanted to make his life worse. I just didn’t want to be a part of it anymore. If anything, I’ve always felt a bit guilty.”
“What? Why?” He stops walking and pins me with a shocked look.
“Because when the going got tough, I walked away. If you love someone, you stand by them, you fight for them.”
“No, not when they are using their fists to fight you,” he argues, running his hand over his face and then through his hair.
He’s upset with me. Tears fill my eyes and drop, leaving wet trails down my cheeks.
Ash will never understand. There’s really no point in trying to sway him otherwise. In the end, Chris’s dad used their influence, money, and relationship with my parents to get everyone to keep this quiet. Chris was hauled off to a back room and paramedics were told an intruder attacked me. That money allowed me to cut ties with my family, move to New York, and it paid for Julliard. It’s ironic really—because of him I was trapped and because of him I was set free.
“I don’t want to fight with you. It was a long time ago, and now you know.” I pull the blankets tighter around me.
He looks back at me, sees the tears, and instantly his demeanor changes.
