WHITE WALLS (8 page)

You'd run too.

Chapter Ten

~Before~

White walls terrify me. White walls terrify me. White walls terrify me. White walls terrify me.

Being alone does nothing to help you overcome grief or tragedy. It only drives you insane faster.

My cot is a welcome mat of deeply rooted pain and regret. I rock back and forth on the thin mattress and the padded white walls of my room blind me. Tucking my knees to my chest I place my forehead against them. I let out a frustrated sigh.

I can't understand these people.

Or this place.

Or why they think putting me in solitary confinement is going to help restoring my mind to what it used to be.

My mind will never be what it used to be. It will be fragmented and broken forever.

Before it only had a sliver of a crack inside of it, brought on by the years of abuse I suffered at Daddy's hand. Now, it's like a stick of dynamite was inserted into my brain at some point and my mind has blown up in front of me. I swear I can see pieces of it scattered across my cot turning the white sheets red.

I am not right.

I am not right.

I belong here.

Because I am just as nutty as the nut jobs I'm locked up with.

Sometimes I catch myself acting nutty. I wander down the halls, flying high off my meds and laugh at nothing. I assume most of the nutty behavior has to do with the drugs they have me on, but I can't be sure.

They told me the drugs would take away the pain.

They told me the drugs would help me sleep.

They are wrong. The pain of losing Damien hasn't gone away. And I hardly ever sleep.

There's a part of me that wishes I could close my eyes and shut out the world, but I can't. I can't because I know behind my eyelids, I'll see him. He'll be there looking so fresh and alive. His skin will be vibrant with color, his blue blue eyes sparkling. He'll flash me his radiant smile and for a few minutes, I'll actually believe that he didn't die. I'll believe it and then I wake up to discover that my mind is torturing me with what could have been and I lose control of my emotions.

I scream.

Sob.

Hug my knees to my chest.

Rock back and forth.

Tug at my hair.

I pace the length of my shoebox room and throw myself into the padded white walls. I pray for someone or something to come along and take the pain away. I pray for someone or something to erase my memory so that I'll never have to think of Damien again. And so that I'll never have to live with the painful reminder that I am the reason he died.

Damien died for me.

And for love.

And I'm not quite sure what else.

Maybe to prove a point.

My sobbing escalates and I see the tears fall from my eyes and rain down my bare legs. I tuck myself into a tighter ball and wail louder to drown out the
Shhh
sound that's coming from behind me.

Shhh?

Shhh?

Who is shushing me?

I lift my head warily, peeking over my shoulder. Damien sits behind me, his strong right hand flat to my back. He moves his hand lower, to the small of my back and rubs gently, “Don't cry my love,” he murmurs. “You know how much I hate to see you cry.”

I tuck my head in between my knees again. “Just go away!” I scream. “I know you're not real!”

“But I am real,” he insists. “Adelaide, look at me.”

“No.”

“Please just look at me. I can prove that I'm real.”

“No.”

“So stubborn,” he hisses under his breath and I know along with that comment and hiss, there's a smirk on his lips. He moves both hands up my back, grips onto both of my shoulders and spins me around to face him. I don't meet his gaze because I know if I do, I'll be lost forever to uncharted waters of blue. I'll drown in those waters. I am certain of it. “Adelaide, look at me.”

Shaking my head, I tuck it further between my knees and wrap both arms around the back of my head, securing it there.

I know Damien though. I know him better than I know myself sometimes and the one thing I know about him more than anything is his persistence. “You know I won't give up until you look at me, Addy.”

“I know,” I mutter, my voice muffled by two limbs and bare skin.

“Then why don't you save yourself the trouble and look at me.”

“Because I don't want to.”

“You're lying.”

He's right. I am lying. It's funny how he always knows it. All I can think about right now is gazing into the watery depths of his eyes, touching his toasted almond skin, and brushing my lips against his.

But I know I shouldn't.

I can't.

I won't.

Because I know if I meet his gaze it will break me apart.

Bit by bit.

Inch by inch.

It will rip me to pieces.

Numb my mind.

And shatter my heart.

I'll succumb to the illusion of the boy I once loved and live in delusion and a part of me knows I can't live in the past. As much as I want to, I can't. I loved Damien. I loved him with every breath I took. And as much as it hurts to erase him from my mind, I know I have to.

“Addy, please,” Damien pleads. “Just look at me.”

I can't look at him.

I can't.

No...

I have to be strong. I have to fight off the urge because as much as I hate to admit it to myself, I know not looking at him is the only chance I have to make it out of this place.

Not looking at him is the only chance I have at a future.

Chapter Eleven

~After~

The sound of papers rustling pulls me from my deep sleep. I feel tiny tubes attached to me as my hands glide up my bare skin beneath my hospital dress.

Why am I still in a hospital dress?

Oh no.

Did they find me?

Am I back at Oakhill?

Please.

God.

No.

My eyes snap open and I try to sit up. A stab of pain vibrates through both on my rib cages and I groan. The pain intensifies and for a moment I think I'm about to be sick. Pale blue walls surround me and I'm in a comfortable bed that's nothing like my thin cot. I try to move one of my arms, but I can't. I'm wearing a sling.

Am I in the infirmary?

“Easy.” There's a deep, baritone voice at my side. I roll my eyes upward and stare. Words escape me and my eyes widen. The man before me is beautiful. “You need to do things slowly. You’ve got a lot of injuries.” The man beside me is dressed in a white lab coat and he coaxes me backward, gently propping a pillow up behind my head.

I recognize him.

I thought he was an angel.

My angel.

I can't find my voice. I think it might be tucked in a deep dark corner of my brain, hiding from me. My mouth gapes open as I take inventory in my surroundings. Charts hang on light blue walls. There's fluid dripping into my arm through a tube, a needle inserted into one of my veins. No... No! Not another sedative. I claw at the tube and the man next to me takes both on my hands in his and pins them down. “Don't pull that out.” His voice is stern. Authoritative. “You need that.”

I clear my throat and find my voice. “I don't want any more drugs.”

The man beside moves across the room and picks up a chart from the wall. He scans it briefly then focuses his attention on me. “They aren't drugs.” He hangs the chart up on the wall and walks back over to me. “They’re fluids. Potassium. Saline. When you came in you were severely dehydrated and malnourished.” He produces a stethoscope from his right pocket. “You were bleeding internally. We didn’t think he you were going to make it.” He dips the end of the stethoscope beneath my gown, but doesn’t touch my skin with it. “This is going to be a little cold.” He puts the two prongs in his ears and places the flat part beneath my skin. I twitch when I feel the icy metal on my chest. Something about this man’s actions seem mechanical. Like he’s so used to checking heartbeats he could do it in his sleep.

While he's listening to my heartbeat, I avert my attention to a wide rectangular window, watching as nurses pass in their uniforms. White dresses. White caps. I even see a few more men wearing lab coats. “I'm in a hospital.” Like a normal hospital with people who are actually here to help me.

“You are,” says the man at my side. “Do you know why?” He removes the end of the stethoscope from my chest and tucks it back into his pocket.

I know he's staring at me. I can feel his eyes touching me in various places. Arms. Cheeks. Lips. My gaze locks with his and breath escapes me. My heart hammers and I can feel it in my throat. My angel is so handsome—no—more than handsome. My angel is ravishing. “Yes and no.” I drop my gaze and play with the edge of the sheet I'm covered with. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yes,” he says shortly.

I think about my childhood and how I always hated going to the doctor. Mostly because I hated getting shots, but as I observe the man next to me I have a funny thought. Perhaps I wouldn't have minded going to the doctor so much if my doctor looked like this one.

“Are you my doctor?” I press on.

A hint of a smile curls on his full lips. “Yes and no.” He takes my wrist and presses two fingers into it, feeling for a pulse.

I purse my lips wondering for a moment if he might be mocking me. The smile fades from his lips and it instantly changes his whole look. His face has taken on this hard edge and I'm amazed that a simple half-smile could add so much to it.
     
Don't get me wrong; even with the hard edge this man's attractiveness cannot be hidden. In fact, all I can do is stare at his face. His long lashes are dark and thick curling up toward his eyebrows. His hair is the color of golden wheat and is parted on the side, every strand of it held in place perfectly by some kind of salve. And his amber eyes have flecks of gold around his irises.

“I was working the ER when they brought you in. Technically, I’m not really your doctor, but since I was the first one to examine you,” his eyes dead-lock with mine, “let’s just say I’m personally invested in the outcome of your recovery.”

“Oh.” My gaze doesn’t falter. In fact, there’s a voice somewhere telling me, I swear I could stare into those eyes for eternity.

He clears his throat like he feels uncomfortable under my scrutiny of him and walks across the room, picking up another chart. He's got broad shoulders and there's muscle definition in his bicep that I can make out through the thin fabric of his lab coat. “Jane Doe,” he says curtly.

I lift an eyebrow. “Jane Doe,” I repeat. “Who is she?”

He laughs and I notice the dimples in his cheeks and how every part of him is illuminated. He's like the sun shining brightly on a hot day. His teeth are straight, white, and glowing against his light skin. Still, the smile and laughter doesn't touch his radiant eyes and I wonder what it is about this doctor that makes him seem, hidden. Guarded. “She's you,” he informs me.

“But that's not my name,” I tell him.

“Well, when you were brought in, you were unconscious. You had no identification. We had no way of figuring out who you were. Now that you're awake, you can tell me.”

I squint as I make out a name tag on his lab coat. It's silver, shiny and when the lighting hits it, it flashes and I can make out his name. Dr. Elijah Watson. He stares at me for a second and his heavy gaze on me makes me nervous. Heat rises to my cheeks and a flutter bounces in my stomach. I'm nervous because I'm terrified of telling this doctor my real name. I don't know him enough to trust him.

What if...

What if he discovers where I came from? What if he tries to contact them? What if they come for me?