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“Sedated? Two days. What?” Lifting my hand, I stare at the cannula stuffed into the back of it before my eyes trail up the tube to a clear bag hanging from a hook.
But it’s not either of those things that make my head spin, causing acid to erupt in my stomach. That would be the bandage on my arm.
I recognize that bandage.
Déjà vu hits me so hard, I barely have time to warn Reid that I’m about to puke in his lap.
“Oh shit,” he barks, jumping up a beat before I barf.
He darts from the room, and before I know what’s happening, he’s back with a bucket.
My stomach screams for relief, but my body won’t allow it as it continues trying to purge me of the knowledge of what I’ve done.
By the time I fall back against the pillows behind me, my body is covered in a layer of cold sweat and I’m trembling from head to toe.
Reid hovers beside me, holding the bucket and looking all kinds of awkward. If I didn’t feel like I was dying, I might laugh at the expression on his face.
It isn’t very often that he looks out of his depth, but right now is definitely one of those times.
Reid Harris might be a lot of things, but he was not designed to be a nurse.
“I’m okay,” I force out, giving him permission to dump the bucket of stomach acid he’s currently holding at a distance.
With a sigh of relief, he runs into my bathroom and disposes of it.
The second he’s back, he looks down at the state of the sheets covering me and reaches for them muttering, “It’s a good thing I love you, J.”
Any humor I might have found in those words is soon eradicated when he tugs the sheets away, and I get a look at the painful evidence beneath me of what I did.
The previously light gray sheet is almost black with dried blood.
“Shit,” Reid hisses, his eyes also locked on the massive stain.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, although it’s a bold-faced lie. Nothing about this is fucking okay.
“J,” he breathes, seemingly unable to find the right words to say.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, forcing the words past the messy lump of emotion clogging my throat.
“No,” Reid says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I fucking left. I did this. I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop, please,” I beg, my voice cracking as it all gets too much.
His eyes hold mine, concern swimming in the dark depths.
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” he finally mutters, turning his attention to something physical.
It takes a bit of shuffling, but eventually, he manages to get a fresh sheet beneath me before covering me with another.
“Tell me what you need?” he asks, hovering by the bed and looking totally out of place in his own home.
Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath, trying to focus on what I need the most.
Sleep?
Food?
“Alana,” I blurt. Her name spills from my lips before I even realize I’ve thought of her.
