Ghost Hand (#Wattys2016)

Chapter 32, The Dark Man's Lair

Whatever I had expected, it wasn't the room laid out before me.

Marcus was lying in a hospital bed near the far wall, handsome but strangely pale, his eyes closed, white sheet carefully folded at the top and tucked across his bare chest. The only thing that distinguished the scene from every soap opera hospital tableau ever filmed was the gaping hole in the patient's chest peeking out above the top of the sheet.

Beyond Marcus were two more hospital beds.

Emma was in the closer one, clearly unconscious as well, with a tube trailing from under her sheet to an IV stand next to her bed.

And in the third bed was Passion Wainwright.

She had an IV too. But she was awake.

Passion looked past the tall, lean man standing at her bedside in a white coat. As her eyes caught mine, and a small smile of recognition flitted across her lips. She raised one hand, her wrist crisscrossed with angry, welted, barely-healed cuts, and gave a little wave.

The doctor turned.

Dr. Fineman turned and smiled at me.

"You made it," he said with the Dark Man's accent. "I'm so relieved. We were beginning to worry."

"She's hurt," Passion slurred, sounding drunkenly concerned. And then more perkily, "but she brought a visitor."

"I told you she would," Dr. Dark Man said.

"You said there would be more," Passion pouted, flopping her arms a little. She wasn't drunk. She was drugged.

"Yes, well. It can't be helped," the doctor said. "I'm sure the rest will be coming along shortly. We'll just have to make do with these two, for now."

"You!" I blurted, my brain finally grasping onto that one word. This could not be real. It had to be a nightmare. Maybe Nose and I were still knocked out, lying in pools of our own blood in the razor room, and this was the terror my unconscious mind had decided to run with—all my personal fears rolled into one horrible scenario. Emma and Marcus helpless. In a hospital. With an evil doctor who just happened to be the Dark Man. And dating my mother. And, of course, throw in Passion, scarred and smiling at me. This was way too twisted to be real.

"Olivia, I know you're upset. This must be very confusing," Dr. Dark Man said. "But you're bleeding quite heavily. And so is your friend. Why don't you let me tend to those wounds, and then we can all have a nice, calm chat."

"Chatty, chat, chat," Passion said, her head lolling against her pillow as she closed her eyes.

Dr. Dark Man moved in my direction, past the end of Emma's bed, his empty hands held out to show he was unarmed.

"Stay away from us!" I screamed, holding my ghost hand out in front of me like a gun. Behind me, I heard a noise—Nose sliding down the doorframe, his body coming to rest gently against the heels of my boots. Couldn't anyone stay conscious long enough to help me even a little? It was like I was living in a world of narcoleptics.

"He needs my help," Dr. Dark Man said, the picture of concern.

"Fuck that!" I yelled. "Fuck you!" My whole body seemed to be shaking, blood dripping onto the floor. "These wounds," I said, holding out my ravaged hand and arm, "are because of you, you sick motherfuck." That word had never seemed more appropriate. "This is all because of you."

"Really?" he said, crossing his arms over his chest like a disgruntled parent. "This is all because of me? That's odd. I thought it was all because of you," His voice ground hard on the "you." He was losing his phony bedside manner. "After all, I'm not the one who stuck my hand into poor innocent Passion here and pulled out her insides. I've been trying to clean up that little mess of yours ever since you made it."