𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 |𝟏𝟖+ (#𝟏)

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴 |

39
AMBER JACKSON
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"I don't want to see him."

My whisper seems loud in the quiet room despite hospital machines beeping. I can feel the tension in the air and everything around me feels like it is waiting for something, some kind of resolution.

Resolution from what? The kidnapping? The rape? The abuse? I take a deep breath, trying to find some peace in the silence.

But then the silence in the room becomes oppressive, and I feel like I'm running around a building trying locks for my safe escape. Despite my body remembering every torrent of beatings, the pain is dull as the memories flit through my mind. I wish for some distraction, something to break this unbearable stillness. My eyes close, concentration on my own breath.

I try to keep my mind occupied by counting the breaths. Inhale. Exhale. One. Two. Slowly, I start to feel the tension in my body dissipate.

Dr. Miller, the woman, looks at me with a bit of confusion. She seems conflicted and distracted, unsure of what to make of me and my statement. Her confusion morphs into discomfort at the prospect of telling him no. If I could laugh without feeling the tenderness in my ribs, I would. Alessandro is her boss, the man who nobody declines – ever.

Well except me, I guess.

"If you say it's coming from me, he'll listen." Her face turns somber, her gaze narrowed on my eyes focusing on the bruising of my face.

"It's not your fault. It's just a response." There is a reassuring tone from her, something that resembles the tone of a mother. I relish it for a bit given my mother wasn't here to ease my pain. Dr. Miller was sweet. Since I woke up an hour ago, she fed me two vanilla puddings at my request, fluffed my pillow, and tried to make me as comfortable as she could.

She told me that she had two sons currently in med school, three years apart. She even joked that she would've introduced me to them had she met me before all of this if not for who I loved. The conversation was fun and calming; giving me time to forget the traumatic few days.

That was before she saw my reaction to her husband standing by my bed. At first, my body just went rigid. Then he raises his hand to examine my head. 

I froze.

My breathing became heavy.

I pull my feet to my chest despite the aching pain through my body. Shivering and cowering away from him.

I squeeze her hand.

They both notice almost immediately.

He ushers himself out while his wife tries to distract and calm me through the squeezing of my palms, keeping eye contact and counting my breaths.

She was successful enough for me to have a decent and attentive conversation with her, though my eyes kept notice of the door uncontrollably.

It's how I concluded that I didn't want to see Alessandro. I didn't want to see the man I loved because I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want him to take on guilt for what happened to me. I didn't want to see the look on his face when I pulled away from him. I didn't want to react to him in that way.

"Yeah, a response that will hurt him and hurt me."

She looks understanding of my plight, but the somber look on her expression worries me. "There are things he wants to tell you – things he needs to tell you."

"You tell me." She shakes her head immediately. I let out a grunt.

"Then tell him to write me a letter or something," I say to her with a short laugh. The morphine was obviously working because I felt a sense of calmness and relief take over my senses. The pain was dulling. She takes a seat at my bedside, writing notes on paper for the file she had on me.