Saved by the Phoenix

Chapter Five

Ember's POV

"Alright. We're letting you go today because you seem to know your stitches pretty well. If you didn't, you would have to stay for another few weeks for them to heal properly. Alright?" The nurse babbled.

I decided to play a game. See how many lies I could tell to the people helping me.

The first was how old I was. Not nineteen, but seventeen; eighteen in a week. Not much of a difference, but a lie nonetheless.

The second was the story. I had come up with it off the top of my head. Really? I couldn't find stitches and had to use a stapler? Pathetic. Nobody could believe that, except maybe the nurse.

I know Patrick didn't believe it. The nurse thought we were related, so I got to go home with him. Not that he didn't mind.

As soon as we got in his car (instead of the van that he four men shared) he made it very clear to the tattoo man and I.

I sat in the back of the car, seating myself on fashionable black leather. It was a nice car, padded, too. I didn't know the name or brand of it- of any car, actually. This was he first car I had been in.

Patrick drove fast and almost violently- I watched his face in the mirror. I was sitting diagonally from him, and Tattoo Guy was in the passenger seat in front of me. The shorter of the two gritted his teeth. His knuckles over the steering wheel were white.

"Um... I'm Andy," offered Tattoo Guy. He caught my eye in the mirror to the right of him; his window was open. I said nothing.

After minutes of awkward silence, we arrived at what I assumed was Patrick's house. A nice house, charming, even, with shuttered windows and a red door.

I got out and followed the two to the door. After casually jamming his key into the door, it was opened, and we were allowed to take a step in.

The living room was very simple, yet ornate at the same time. A wooden acoustic guitar hung on the wall, along with a few pictures, most things of musical background. But they didn't suit him. There was no originality to it; the way you could tell they weren't his was eerie. They were empty, in a way.

I was fixated on the decor in the room when I felt a hand grab my wrist, firmly. I turned in time to see Patrick start walking with me up the stairs to the left of me.

I tested his strength, trying to pry my arm away from his grip, getting more and more worried. He didn't say anything, in the way where you could tell he was mad, but didn't want to upset you at the same time. I was considering biting his fingers, but he pushed me into a doorway, closing the door behind us.

What would he he do? I started really getting scared. He fumbled through a dresser, collecting clothes.

"Patrick?" I pondered. I knew why he would be upset. I was a stranger, with an obviously fake story. But why would he be furious? He would assume that I would just go home, right?

Not that I had one.

He pressed clothes into my chest, almost shoving me. I stumbled backwards, but caught his eye from under the black frame of his glasses. "Get dressed in the bathroom. Afterwards, I wanna talk with you." He pointed to an open door to the master bathroom. "Shower if you want. It helps take away the hospital smell."

I nodded, looking away as he did the same. Moving and closing the bathroom door behind me, I fought the urge to just sit and bawl my eyes out. The mirror reflected my image back in my eyes, forcing me to label what I saw.

Monster.

Murderer.

After moving to the dials in the shower and ridding myself of the flimsy hospital clothing, I couldn't help but eye myself again in the giant mirror. Not in a sexual way, of course, but rather in a state of disgust. The stitches lining my stomach, weaving around my breasts and twining down my legs and arms, the last one ending at my calf. Thin white lines indicating memories of cuts, incisions, and phantoms of burns along with new ones. Purple clouds settled on my side, but the worst was the iconic Frankenstein scars, dark pink lines around my limbs, my joints, the scars from the women I was shipped off to those times.

I stepped into the hot shower, trying to rid myself of those memories. Since there was really no reason to wash my hair as I was washed this morning, I just decided to use soap.

When I returned to the clothes sitting on the toilet seat, I quickly found that they were a little big for me. They were Patrick's, but it wasn't because he was big, more so that he was taller than me by about three or four inches.

Finally, I opened the door. I was planning to open it slowly, but it let out a small groan, signaling exit. He was sitting on his bed, a big four-poster one.

I cautiously sat down across from him under his eye, gripping the the wooden bed post.

He cleared his throat. "What... Did you do? Why did you do this?"

I cocked my head. What?

"I mean, I love my fans. But this... Isn't right! This is, like, almost creepy stalker stuff! You need to go home."

I felt tears stabbing the backs of my eyes, and forced them down. Pussy, I thought to myself. I held the wrist of his sweater to my mouth and nose.

"Ember," he said, more firmly this time. "I'll help you get home. You were hurt. But I can't give you some special treatment because you're a fan... I know I may mean a lot to you, but I can't keep you."

So that was why he was so mad. He was famous. No famous person would just keep paparazzi in their house like pets. I'm sure every girl would want that, though.

He was holding my shoulders, looking me dead in the eyes. "Ember, are you even listening? I know my fans and their fantasies, but you need. To. Go. Home!" He was practically screaming at me now. But I could understand his logic.

"Patrick, I can't."

The words slipped through my lips before I could process them. Oh, crap, I've gone too far his time.

His face just about summed up the definition of confusion. "What?" And then an "oh, my god, I'm so sorry." As he sat down next to me. "How?"

I swallowed, but my mouth was so dry, I could barely speak. Maybe it would make this next lie more believable.

"I... I was kicked out of the house by my mom. She never helped me, and I was barely living. I didn't get a job for a long time, and, and, I lived in a tent." A more believable lie, at least, now that I didn't have so much pressure. Now I had to make another up about my injuries. The third lie.

"There were these men that would come by sometimes, but they never said anything. And then..." I trailed off. Fourth lie.Patrick looked at me between long fingers around his face. "Did they...?"

My voice was wobbly; I was scared he wouldn't fall for it, so I whispered this next lie. The fifth. "Yeah."

His hands hesitantly went around me in an awkward hug. "I'm sorry, really sorry, and I'm sorry I yelled at you." I could feel light fingers skimming over a few stitches on my arms. "These?"

"Fetish," I choked out. Sixth.

I melted into his embrace, hugging him back, as tightly as I could without hurting myself. We stayed like that for a long time, together in an uncertain oblivion until I fell asleep.