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Where are we going? Why won’t they stop and tell me what’s happening?
What’s wrong with me?
Time muddies, but eventually, the rocking stops.
The voices quiet.
There’s only Wells. I sense him.
His presence. His concern. His love.
His sugar and scotch mingle with bleach and blood, making my nostrils itch.
He smooths his palm over my hair, his lips close to my ear, breath wetting my lobe and inducing goose bumps. Classic Wells. “You wanted to be a pebble, Ivanna, shaking the surface of the pond, but you are so much more. You can fill it up or empty the whole goddamn thing simply by the direction you choose. You’re the storm, baby. Be the fucking storm.”
I knew it was you, Wells. My masked heartthrob, skipping stones and sharing dreams.
He sweeps a thumb over my cheekbone and kisses my forehead, but then he’s gone.
A cool sting rushes through my veins, numbing my limbs and spinning my body until it’s weightless.
Hazy.
Vacant.
And my world goes silent.
IVY
There’s an incessant beeping, intent on frying my nerves. And a whirring sound.
Everything is white, the kind of white that might shine near the heavens. The kind that blurs and blinds.
And that’s with my lids shut because they refuse to open.
My bones are stiff, muscles aching. I don’t know how to mark the time. How long have I been here? Unmoving.
Asleep but awake.
Imprisoned in a constant state of confusion.
Sometimes, I hear voices. Most I don’t recognize.
Except my mom’s. I hear my mom’s voice. Her cries.
I feel her touches. On my hair, my cheek, my hands.
She covers me with blankets. I’m always cold. So cold.
And she knows.
She’s angry now, arguing with someone. Yelling. She never raises her voice. It isn’t ladylike or proper.
I love that about her—her composure and self-control, how she can care for people, juggle tasks, and entertain, all while having the grace of a 1950s sitcom housewife, no matter the circumstances. Elegance at its finest.
“She was supposed to have woken up by now. I want answers.” Her tone is woven with warning, fierce. So unlike her. My father would be so proud.
I wish I could open my eyes for her, but something keeps pulling me under. Like I’mdrifting into the deepest parts of the sea, too heavy to swim or float. Sinking. It’s him. My father. He’s calling me to his office.
