Fear

26

I'd just finished breakfast when I looked over at Tom.

He was still asleep, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket, face turned towards the wall. His hands were curled under his chin like a child's. I wondered if he'd dreamt anything peaceful. If the nightmares ever stopped for him. I doubted it.

I closed my eyes.

Last night, one of the nurses had taken me to the washroom. A small, dim room with chipped tiles and a row of overhead showers with the chrome corroded, the kind you'd find in public leisure centres and prisons. Those two examples wildly contrast, but I'm sure you can imagine them.

Anyway, I'd been quiet, obedient, and kind of numb, especially after hearing Tom's confession. I let the nurse strip off the thin hospital gown and pat me down, then felt uncomfortably exposed as she watched me shower. She didn't seem to care in the slightest. I let the weak stream of water wash over me, my back turned to her. At least the water was warm — a small mercy, I guess.

The shower itself wasn't all that memorable. I scrubbed the blood, sweat and dirt from my body and washed my tangled hair. But it was what the nurse handed to me after that struck me as odd.

A black dress. Not the uniform grey sweats I'd been used to — what every other patient wore. It was simple enough to pass as modest, but short, like a statement. She'd handed me a pair of black polyester shorts to wear underneath, just enough to cover what mattered. I hated it, and not just because I never usually dressed like this.

'Wait... Did Tyler...?'

The thought slipped in uninvited, crawling over my skin like a swarm of insects. I rubbed the spot on my wrist where the cannula had been, hand trembling slightly, and swallowed against the dryness in my throat.

See, no one else wore anything like it. Everyone else in the ward wore either the same pale blue gowns or identical institutional sweats. But me? I looked like a patient dressed for an open-casket funeral.

But I couldn't dwell on it.

Someone appeared at my bedside — a male nurse I didn't recognise. He was Asian, possibly Indonesian or Malaysian, around my height and a little older, with messy brown hair and dark eyes that showed no emotion. A black surgical mask concealed the lower half of his face, leaving only his unreadable eyes visible.

I immediately didn't like him.

He looked at me only briefly. Didn't speak. Pushed a wheelchair up to my bedside like it was a chore.

Right behind him came Dr. Thorne with a friendly but tired face. His white coat swayed slightly as he walked, clipboard in hand, expression somewhere between kind and concerned.

"Good morning, Emily," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"

I didn't answer right away, just shrugged, still suspiciously eyeing the new male beside him.

Thorne gave a small nod, like he understood too well. He turned to gesture at the man. "This is Nurse Vincent. He'll be taking you back to your room today."

Back to my room.

The phrase hit like a hammer. Final. Cold. There was no offer in it. Just inevitability.

Thorne came closer, placing a hand on my ankle with gentle pressure, as if trying to ground me. "I've spoken to James about resuming your therapy. He might come to see you later today."

'Great. Therapy. Because that did so much good last time,' said the voice in my head, sarcastically.

Then the nurse stepped forward. I instinctively flinched. He was removing the bandages on my arms, and I hadn't even noticed his hands move. They were gentle but cold to the touch, moving only with the practised robotic gestures of a medical professional.