Bare Her Soul (James Patrick March x reader )

Nine

The muted light of an overcast afternoon eventually woke you. It took you longer than it should have to realise where you were. The room was too Art Deco to belong anywhere but in the hotel Cortez.

You lay on your stomach, cheek flattened against the bed pillow and your mouth slacked. Your aching eyes strained open, squinting against the light of day. You cussed yourself for not having drawn those damn curtains. 

But you couldn't have, you realised, because you were kidnapped last night.

You sat upright. The jolt of the movement causing a sharp pain to flare at the base of your skull.

You'd been drugged.

'Opium' James had mentioned. A fragmented, picture of Sally came back to you. You'd been with her at some point last night. A point after which your memory seemed to blur. 

Had Sally given you heroin? Had you taken it? 

You knew you wouldn't. That drug was a thing of pure evil. It went against everything you had ever believed in. But James had said... 

Your heart leapt into your throat as it came back to you. Singular glimpses of James and that detective from room sixty-four strung up in your mind. You tried to order the images, to put chronology to the events, but it seemed impossible. Every thought you had felt like a cognitive marathon. You were drained. Your brain replayed the glass jar full of severed tongues sitting in John's lap. 

It was a trip surely, a textbook bad one.

Your shoulders slumped heavily. How many people had drugs killed? How many lives had been ruined by it? Tears welled up in your eyes. Surely you wouldn't, not even if you'd been drinking.

Every tear seemed to sting your tired skin, and you pressed them away with the heels of your hands. 

You reached for the glass of water at your bedside, downed it in nearly one swig and dragged your weary bones off the mattress. It was a battle for your legs, but you made it to the ornate dresser. The rosary your grandmother had given you on your first communion lay on the surface where you'd left it. Your fingertips trailed cautiously over the beads, shame preventing you from picking it up.

With a heavy sigh, you sank to your knees. Your elbows resting on the wood the only thing keeping you from completely collapsing. You caught sight of your face. You were a ghost in the vanity mirror. Your skin deathly pale, darkened with contour and your eyes were dull. 

You ought to go to the police, but your memory was such a fog - what would you say? 'A woman down the hall may or may not have stabbed me with a heroin needle?'

You screwed your eyes shut with a groan. You couldn't go to the police yet not with your mind still playing tricks on you. You decided to go to the only person in this place you had felt truly safe with, someone that was smart enough, grounded enough, to help you make sense of it all.

You didn't have the energy to change, so you dug out an oversized hoodie from your closet and a pair of sneakers. You pulled it over yourself so that it fell mid-thigh and swallowed your pyjamas, and left to go and find James. 

Even the hotel Cortez was too bright for you that day, and you kept your eyes glued to the carpet, half-lidded, shielding you from the light fixtures as you walked along the hallway. 

"Y/N..are you alright?" 

You hadn't even noticed John standing there. 

His face mirrored yours - but he still managed to look that little bit more weary. 

You looked at the cop for a long moment, blinking away the sinister images that flashed in your mind. 

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" you decided, voice cracking in your dry throat.