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“Now, Adam,” he says, his face hard. “You need to be a brave boy so the doctors can treat you.”
He shakes his head, over and over. He grips harder on his mother’s arm. He knows he’s hurting her, but he can’t let go. He starts to cry, tears blurring his vision. “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t,” he gabbles.
“Maybe it would be best if we do this alone,” he hears the doctor say.
He feels his mother pull away, but he hangs on tight. Strong fingers pry him off; he starts to scream as he loses his grasp.
He feels hard hands clamp onto his arms. He struggles, his hysteria growing louder. The sheets get caught around his legs as he kicks. He feels the pinch of fingers on his skin as they hold him down.
His parents have gone now. They’ve left him. His muscles contract, his whole body is tense. His gaze shifts from doctor to doctor, men talking frantically, nurses struggling to hold him still. People he doesn’t know, faces ugly with anger.
And then he feels it. The pain, the sting in his arm as the needle goes in.
“I’ve missed it. Shit, hold him still. Hold him still!”
The agony intensifies within his flesh as the needle is moved around, his muscle contorting as he continues to scream. Scraping against bone, pain from deep inside him. He feels the grip releasing, and he opens his eyes. One of the doctors has stepped back and is looking at him sternly.
“There. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” the doctor says. “It wouldn’t have hurt if you’d relaxed.”
The boy looks down. The needle is embedded in his skin, the foreign object next to tendons, blood, bone. It’s wrong, alien. It shouldn’t be there. He flexes his fingers. He thinks he’s going to be sick, his heart racing.
The nurse on the other side lets go of his arm, and without thinking he reaches over and grabs. The plastic tubing, the tape, the needle, it all comes away as he pulls it free. He feels the tear down his arm, the shred of skin as it breaks. The rush of warm blood as the vein gapes, ripped apart by his action.
Then the hands again, forcing him down. The sting of pain. He thrashes to and fro, a hand on his forehead, pushing him roughly onto the bed. Another over his mouth to silence him. He struggles to breathe. He panics. He hears shouting, feels their alarm.
And all he’s aware of as his body contracts with pain as more needles are pressed into his pale delicate skin is the loneliness. The fear.
He trusted them, and they left him.
Alone.
CHAPTER
45
ADAM WAKES SLOWLY. A horrible thought: something has gone wrong. Where is he? How did he get here? He hears odd-sounding voices in the distance. A slight panic. He is lying on a cold floor, his legs raised on a chair.
“Bishop?” A voice pushes through the darkness. He opens his eyes; Ross is looming over him.
“You’re awake. Good.”
He feels someone lifting his arm, taking his pulse. He pulls it away, annoyed. He has a vague awareness of having been unconscious. He puts his hands behind him to push himself up, but his head swims, forcing him to lie back down.
“Take it easy, Adam. You passed out.”
He feels foolish, lying here on the cold tiled floor, in the—? Where is he? Oh, fuck, it’s the mortuary. He tries to sit up again, and this time succeeds.
He’s handed a glass of water; he sips it slowly.
“Has anything like this happened before?” Ross asks.
“A few times,” he mutters. “Bad reaction to needles.”
Ross nods knowingly. “Standard vasovagal response. A bad one too.” He chuckles. “This is so not the murder case for you.”
Adam scowls at him. “I am aware of that fact, thank you.” He pulls himself to his feet, wobbles slightly, then takes the chair offered to him by the technician. “I can normally control it. Stay away from the triggers, using applied tension.”
“And what are your triggers?”
