Chapter Thirty Three

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Beep

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Beep. Beep. Beep.

I'm floating, unmoored in the darkness, my body surrounded by clouds and my head filled with fluff. Hazy, faint light brushes my eyelids, but I turn away, seeking out the darkness.

Quiet, soft, nothing. Peace fills my bones.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

What is that noise? Is it my alarm? God, I wish it would just stop, leave me to my quiet... for once, leave me alone.

The world can go on without me today.

But the beeping continues, stripping away the layers of sleep around me one by one, waking up the pounding in my head and the ache in my muscles. My awareness returns, one drop at a time, filling my head with noise and memories.

They contain confusion. And fear—but why was I afraid? I sort through the files in my head, blurry pictures that contain a wealth of emotion.

And then I remember it all. The island. The constant headaches, the hallucinations that stripped away my sense of self and time and place. The hallucinations that were driving me crazy.

I remember asking Anthony for help. I remember Rose, and the pain of it hits me so hard it feels like my heart might have stopped.

I remember Anthony leaving, and coming back pale and troubled.

And I remember the kiss, the one that lit my bones on fire and melted my heart.

I remember the docks, and the way Anthony had looked at me, sad and scared and guilty.

I remember the way the world fell to pieces, colours kaleidoscoping around me until the darkness had felt like a gift.

But where am I? The thought pushes forward from the back of my mind, unleashing a torrent of questions. Did I pass out from the hallucinations? Did we make it? Where is Ben?

It's the last one that forces me into action.

My eyes snap open.

White, everywhere, blinding me, making my eyes water and my vision dance with spots. The room comes into focus around me. White walls. No windows, with a singular door, the robins-egg blue the only spot of colour. Machines fill the room, medical equipment with flashing lights that beep and hum, creating a thick layer of background noise.

Tubes snake around my arms. I feel like a fly caught in a web. Tape covers needles, liquid drip-drip-dripping into my bloodstream. My fingers itch to rip them out. But I have no idea what happened to me. These machines could be the only thing keeping me alive.

So I settle for sitting up, wincing as my muscles protest. The shift wakes me up, and I take stock of my body. I carefully wiggle my legs, flex my toes. Lift my arms over my head as far as I can, which is when I notice my clothes, or lack thereof. My jeans and sweater have been replaced with a hospital gown that ends just above my knees. I glance at my wrist, expecting to see a hospital bracelet, but there's nothing there. Confused, I tilt my head—then pause. I run my hand up the side of my face, behind my ear, expecting to find the thick wave of hair that usually falls in my eyes whenever it has the chance.

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