I blink with One eye groaning.
I jerk awake, the brightness cutting into my skull like a blade. Everything is blinding and wrong. My body feels heavy, not just sore foreign. Like I've been stitched back together and something's missing. The walls are too white. The room too quiet. I know this place.
The private hospital.
I was here once before when Nigel broke my leg.
My mouth is dry. My lips crack when I try to lick them. My tongue feels like sandpaper. I turn my head slowly, every muscle screaming in resistance. The ache in my bones is so deep it feels like it's coming from the marrow. I'm alone.
Of course I'm alone.
Maybe I'd hoped Buzzy would be here. Or even Colten. Pathetic. I press my lips together, trying not to let the shame settle too loud in my chest.
The door creaks open. I flinch so hard I feel a pop in my side. Pain blooms immediately. I grit my teeth, barely able to breathe through it.
Dr. Harris walks in. His face is tired. Bearded. His eyes widen when he sees I'm awake, and he holds up a gloved finger.
I try to speak, but there's something jammed in my throat—thick and cold and wrong. Panic rises fast. My body jerks weakly, alarms beeping.
"You're okay. You're safe," he says calmly. "I had to intubate you. I'm going to take it out. You might gag. It'll be uncomfortable."
I nod, tears springing to my eyes. He moves quickly but carefully, and when the tube comes out, I cough like I'm drowning in air. My throat is raw. Like I swallowed fire.
He replaces it with a nasal cannula, and I suck in shaky, shallow breaths.
"What... what happened?" My voice is hoarse. Barely there. "Where am I?"
"Private hospital in New York City."
The world tilts slightly. I stare at the window—black sky, no stars.
"How long have I been here?" I ask softly, dreading the answer. There's something in the way his beard's grown in. Like time kept moving while I didn't.
"About four weeks. Give or take."
Four weeks.
I blink. My breath stops for a second too long. The edges of my vision blur.
"I don't remember..." I whisper. "Any of it."
"You were comatose," he says gently, setting down his clipboard and checking my IV. "At first, you were conscious, but then you went into cardiac arrest. Your body shut down."
"You mean I died," I say flatly. He doesn't correct me.
I stare at the ceiling, blinking hard, but the tears come anyway.
"You were in the wrong place at the wrong time," he murmurs. "And you were beaten... very badly. You also suffered minor brain trauma. We had to drain fluid to relieve pressure."
"Brain damage." I repeat it like it's not real. Like he's talking about someone else. "So I'm... what? Not normal now?"
"You're here. You're healing. That's all I care about," he replies gently.
"Can I check the inside of your mouth?" he asks. I nod. He puts on gloves and gently opens my mouth. When he shifts my cheek, I wince hard. It feels like my teeth are still sunk into it.
He pauses. "You've got lacerations inside your cheek. Repeated blunt force trauma. Probably someone's fist. A lot."
I nod, not sure what to say. "It didn't heal?"
"Broken jaw slows everything down. And there's been risk of infection."
"Can I talk with a broken jaw?"
He nods. "Yeah. It just hurts like hell."
He's right. It does.
"I lost weight?" I ask, like I didn't already know. My skin clings too tightly to my bones. My hands look like someone else's. Weak. Pale. Dented.
"You were on a feeding tube. The body eats itself after a while."
I try not to cry again, but it stings. All of it stings.
He hands me a printout of my injuries. The paper shakes in my hand.
"Eighteen broken ribs. Bruised kidneys. Fractured orbital socket. Broken jaw. Minor brain trauma. Lacerations. Internal bleeding. One lung collapsed. Temporary vision impairment. Permanent limp."
The words blur. I can't tell if it's the page or my eyes.
"Prosthetic rib," he says. "We use them in cancer patients, but yours was too shattered."
My hand goes to my side. The skin is tight there. Foreign. I want to scream.
"W-why can't I see out of my right eye?" I whisper.
"Blurry for now. Should improve with time."
I nod blankly.
"The limp?"
He gives me a look. The kind that says, we're lucky that's all you walked away with.
"You'll walk. You'll heal. But it's going to be a long road."
I try to wiggle my toes. Pain shoots up my spine and I groan, mumbling nonsense under my breath.
"And... was I..." I can barely finish the question. "Was I sexually assaulted?"
He goes quiet. Too quiet.
"I don't think so. No signs. But I can order a rape kit if you want Dr. Weber to run it. She's qualified. There was no tearing.
I nod slowly. My throat tightens.
Not knowing is worse than anything.
"I'll get her."
He hands me a tiny red spray bottle for pain relief—cherry flavored. I manage a weak smile. It'll probably taste like chemicals and lies.
I take the list of injuries in my hand and study it like it belongs to someone else. Like I wasn't the girl who was broken into pieces and stitched back together by strangers.
"The medical bill," I mutter numbly, already dreading it.
He shakes his head. "It's been covered."
My eyes meet his. "Colten?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer—just gives a small, knowing nod.
"The blue devil." My voice cracks.
"Thank you," I say. My voice is barely there.
He leaves, and the second the door closes behind him, I shatter.
The sobs come hard and fast. My body shakes with them, and it hurts—everything hurts—but I cry anyway. Ugly, broken, desperate cries. I press my broken fingers into my bruised, stitched-up face and cry until I can't breathe.
Stupid. Stupid girl.
YOU ARE READING
The Blue Hearted Devil Himself
RomansaI lean in close, my breath grazing his ear. "You're mean," I murmur, voice barely above a whisper as I swallow down the whimper threatening to escape-though from the way his smirk deepens, I know he hears it. That devilish grin spreads across his fa...
