VIRULENCE | H.S |

~ 27 • C ~

Chapter Twenty Seven - Catherine's POV

A/N: TW: Mention of Mental Health and Suicide

Cold air.

Loud and constant beeping.

The rubbing of my hand.

I've felt those three uncomfortable things for the past thirty minutes, but I've yet to say a word, or even open my eyes to investigate what exactly they are or where they are coming from.

I attempt to reminisce back to my last memory, to try to piece everything back together...

Think, Catherine, Think.

The party.

Hooking up with the blonde in the castle.

Moving the party to the beach.

Talking with Harry about the "what could've been's" and reluctantly falling asleep after a long and heart filled conversation.

Waking up on the beach next to Harry.

Harry....is that him rubbing my hand?

No way. It would never be him--He would rather cut it off. And the feeling would be mutual.

I can't imagine him ever rubbing someone's hand as an emotional gesture, but this light feathery hand rubbing across my palm certainly feels like one, so it is surely not him.

Who could it be, then?

I think harder. Searching for any glimpse of a memory that I can hold on to as I delve deep into my brain...

Oh my god.

That girl, Annie.

The cliff.

The body.

The cops.

Oh my fucking God.

I shoot up out of the bed I'm lying in and open my eyes to take in the mundane surroundings of a bright hospital room.

I'm hooked up to IV's, which are presumably where the constant beeping is coming from, and as I look around the circumference of the room, I quickly locate the harsh blow of a dwindled air conditioning unit that is consistently filtering out frigid air throughout the entire room.

"Catherine?" A familiar voice calls out, and as I look down at my hand, I see the rubbing continues.

Oh no.

"Catherine, darling, are you alright?" The voice counters once more.

This isn't real, right?

I must be dreaming. I must be.

There's no way my father is here sitting next to me right now, rubbing my hand to comfort me.

My father, who has spent years making my life miserable.

My father, who only cares about himself.

My father, who sent me away without even saying goodbye.

My father, who is sitting right here in front of me, rubbing my hand.

I knit my brow as I take in his facial expression, and I'm utterly shocked, as it shows genuine concern.

Yeah, this must be a dream.

"What the hell are you doing here, Otis?" I ask coldly.

He immediately stops rubbing my hand and clenches his jaw, before taking a prolonged deep breath, "I got a call from the Dean, Catherine. I came here as quickly as I could."