divine, calum hood

begging, crying.

On the next Saturday, 2 weeks after Winslow had been admitted to her new home, the pain started.

Winslow woke up one morning with manageable pain in her side, and she sort of assumed they were period cramps until she checked her planner — realizing she just had one.

But she didn't worry herself.

Harriet sent her to the store at 6 pm that evening, and with money she had saved up, grabbed some midol from the pharmacy.

On Sunday, she woke up and the pain was a little worse. So, she grabbed a midol and dealt with it.

By Midnight, it was nearly unbearable.

Winslow was curled up on her bed, looking at the card her old doctor, Calum, had given her when he dropped her off and was seriously debating calling him.

But decided against it.

Monday morning went smoothly because she had taken two midol this time. She took the kids to school and arrived at school early enough.

By 3rd period, though, it was back and she was in the nurse's office with a fever and she had been throwing up. They couldn't get ahold of Harriet, so they sent her to the hospital.

"Your right side hurts, sweet girl?" One of the paramedics asked.

Winslow nodded.

Being in the ambulance again made her heart race, but she wasn't trying to think of the rape she went through. The pain in her lower right abdomen was enough to distract her.

They wheeled her into a room and a random daughter she'd never met before showed up, and began working on her.

His hand went to her stomach and she instantly broke into tears.

"Please, stop touching me," Winslow begged, trying to tug her shirt down. Nurses grabbed her arms and she started crying. "Stop, stop, please—"

"We need security," The doctor insisted, "Get security."

"No!" Winslow cried, "Please, let me go, don't lift my shirt up, please, get Calum Hood, please,"

The pleading and begging didn't do much for her, and she was restrained by security with handcuffs while she cried. They held her down, even taking her shoes and socks off to handcuff her ankle to the bed.

When she was "calm" enough, the doctor came back and began to work again.

"You're gonna corporate now?" He asked harshly, "You can't scream and thrash now."

"You're fucking sick!" Winslow yelled at him, loud enough for a certain doctor down the hall to perk up. "You're fucking a sicko! Read my chart, I'm a rape victim! Get these fucking handcuffs off me, now!"

"Give her sedation, please," The doctor told the intern standing by the IV bag. "Ketamine. 4 milligrams."

"What?" Winslow cried. "I'm 119 pounds! That's too much, just 1 milligram, stop— Stop!"

It was too late. The nurse put 4 milligrams in her IV and Winslow felt herself drift to sleep, but she was fighting it. Thrashing around, begging through her drowsiness, until she heard someone shout— then she was out.