Beautiful, but Damned

Chapter 11

Dahlia's POV

My eyelids flutter open, my head is throbbing painfully as I'm greeted by a blinding light. God it feels like I was hit by a bus... Again. As I scan my surroundings, all I can see are sterile white walls. Where am I? I think as I try to recall anything that had happened but this throbbing in my head was making it impossible. And my throat was so dry, like I hadn't drank water in years. I attempt to close my mouth, but there's a tube in between my lips blocking the motion and that brings on more confusion.

I reach up to remove the tube that's invading my esophagus only to find my arms bound, tied down like a straight jacket in an insane asylum. I chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Well I've been in worse situations, how hard

could it be to get out of this one? I start to flex my fingers, trying to feel the straps binding my wrists. Leather, solid but not entirely unyielding. I can work with that.

I try to move, but a sharp pain in my abdomen stops me. Memories of being chained up and held captive flood back — Frank and his thugs, Jada's fear-stricken face, the chaotic shooting with Don Leo. I can still feel the bullet piercing my skin and the shock that followed. All I remember after that is collapsing on the hard floor of the warehouse, helpless like a twisted damsel in distress. The last thing I recall is seeing my father's concerned eyes and hearing Kieran humming that sweet Irish tune as he carried me out of the burning building. Then everything went black.

Son of a bitch! What the hell happened after that? Did Kieran get us out? Is Frank dead? Too many questions assault my mind, each one pounding against my skull, amplifying the pain. I grit my teeth in frustration but all I succeed in doing is biting down hard on the tube snaking down my throat.

I observe my surroundings and quickly spot small discrepancies from the infirmary I'm used to. The chair is placed on the opposite side of the room, and the TV hangs on the wall across from the window. No one in their right mind would put a tv across from the window, it

causes a glare. But then again, who am I to critique the interior design choices of my mysterious captors?

I decide to put my observational skills to better use by studying my restraints again. I wiggle my wrists, testing for any give in the leather. It's tight, but not impossibly so.

Just as I go to work on loosening the bonds, the door to my room swings open. A nurse, with all the warmth of a popsicle, walks in . Her eyes are smoky with indifference and her lips pressed together in a grim line. She's got a clipboard under her arm, and a badge latched onto her breast pocket. She doesn't look at me as she crosses the room, pausing only to adjust the blinds before she starts fiddling with the machines beside my bed.

While she intently looks at the screen, I attempt to, once again, wiggle my limbs free. I can feel my pulse quicken as one cuff loosens just slightly, but his voice interrupts my small victory.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." she says, turning slightly, she nods at a pesky camera perched in the corner, blinking like it's trying to play a game of hide and seek.

Once she sees that I'm no longer struggling, she resumes her duties. Her fingers fly over the buttons of the machines and check my vitals before she walks out of the room, leaving me with my spiraling thoughts. The seconds turn into minutes, and then hours. The sterile smell of the room assaults my senses, and the rhythmic hum of the machines plays with my sanity. I can't count the number of times I've looked at the stupid TV screen, empty save for a few faint streaks where someone tried to wipe it clean.

One hundred and ninety-six minutes later, Nurse Ratchet, as I affectionately name her, struts back in, her eyes locking onto mine like a predator sizing up its prey. She places a surgical tray nearby, as if it were a prop in our little sideshow, and starts rummaging through a nearby cabinet.