Four Walls (Book One) ✔️

Chapter Fifty-Nine

I slowly open my eyes, using my hand as a shield to block out the light. My head is pounding, and the blaring fluorescents above my bed aren't helping in the slightest.

I guess having your skull cut open will have that agonizing effect.

The door to my room opens. I groan, expecting to see Dr. Ford or a prodding nurse, but the blue-eyed face in front of me brings a smile to my lips.

"You're awake." Damian pulls up a chair and sits beside my bed. He loops his fingers through mine, his grip soft, as if he's afraid to break me. "God, Layla, I've been so worried."

I know. Dr. Ford told me he's been at the hospital all day. I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

"So, uh, do you remember anything?" Damian asks. "About the accident, I mean."

"Bits and pieces," I mumble, thinking back to this morning. My cognitive functioning isn't at one-hundred percent yet. "I was at the cemetery. Hank showed up, I believe. After that, everything's kind of a blur."

"Yeah, Effie described a man who sounded like your dad," he growls.

"Effie?"

"She's the girl who found you. She saved your life, Layla."

"I guess I owe her my gratitude," I say, squeezing his hand. I may have just undergone brain surgery, but I'm not a porcelain doll.

"Layla," he whispers, his lips curling into a frown, "there's... there's something you should know."

"Tell me," I demand, sensing his trepidation. "What's going on, Damian?"

"The doctor... well, he noticed bruising on your arms. He said it looked as if you'd been hurt. Abused."

I take a slow, deep breath, attempting to calm my pulsating heart. I just had surgery, for mercy's sake. Stress is the last thing I need right now.

"You didn't mention Hank, right? You didn't tell him my secret?" I choke out.

"I didn't," he replies, to which I let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank god." I allow myself to relax. "You had me worried for a second."

He shakes his head. "I didn't, Layla, but Jessi... she did. She told him that your dad has been hitting you for at least two years. Social Services is coming to talk to you tomorrow."

Around me, the room gyrates. Biting down on my lip, I close my eyes to prevent the tears from falling.

I can't cry. I won't cry.

"I'm so sorry, Layla," he murmurs, stroking the skin between my thumb and index finger. "She figured it out on her own and decided today would be the perfect time to—"

"It isn't her fault," I cut him off, my voice a muted undertone. "She did what she thought was right."

"Yeah." His aquamarine eyes flicker with guilt. "Look, we don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. I wouldn't lose sleep over it."

"With all the drugs in my system, sleep is the last thing I'll be losing tonight," I state, invoking a chuckle from my best friend.

There's another knock at the door. Moments later, Moira enters, a backpack in her hand. She places it on the floor and approaches my bedside.

"Hey, sweetie," she says, caressing my cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit in the head with a rock," I respond, forcing a smile. I refuse to pass up an opportunity to make jokes at my own expense.

"Dr. Ford said your surgery went extraordinarily well. In a week, you can come home."

I nod my head, unsure what "home" will be a week from now.

An hour later, a nurse comes in to kick out Damian and Moira. They promise to come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow. When Social Services shows up.

I knew this could happen eventually. I knew there was a possibility that someone would uncover my secret and share it with all the wrong people. I did not assume that person would be Jessica Jermain, but the details are irrelevant. Either way, a social worker is arriving tomorrow to question me about the past seventeen years of my life, when I can't even recall the past twenty-four hours.

Seems cruel, if you ask me.

Despite what I told Damian, I do have trouble sleeping. The pain in my head and the pain in my chest made it difficult to close my eyes for more than an hour.

I need to rest in order to recover, but it's hard to do that when my mind won't shut off. Anxious thoughts infiltrate my already injured brain like soldiers marching into battle. Right now, I simply don't have the strength to fight them off.

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"Layla, are you awake?"

I force my eyes open. A blonde-haired, brown-eyed woman in scrubs stares down at me, her glossy lips spread into a kind smile.

"Is it morning already?" I grumble, peeking out the window. The sun is up, but just barely. The sky is still dark blue with hints of pinky-orange.

"Not quite. I just have to check your vitals," she replies. Quickly, she takes my temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure—something that's been done every two hours since my surgery. "All done. How are you feeling?"

"Anxious," I admit. Lying would be senseless. She just took my heart rate; she knows it's on the higher end of average.

"Why are you feeling anxious?" asks the nurse, her voice laced with concern.

"Social Services will be here in a few hours, and I'm not sure what to expect."

"Ah, I heard about that," she replies, nodding her head. "Well, I've worked in this hospital for a long time, and I've seen my fair share of DCF visits. Most of the time, they're pretty short. If you start to get uncomfortable, just say you're not feeling well. You did just have brain surgery, after all."

I touch the stitches on the back of my skull. I don't feel well. Everything aches, not just my head. My arms and legs hurt. My body is fatigued. I feel like I've been run over by a truck.

"I'll tell you what," the nurse goes on, "I'll come check on you before the social worker arrives. If you're too tired, I'll have them push back the visit. Sound good?"

"Sounds amazing." I say, exhaling a sigh of relief.

"Get some shuteye, alright? You need it." She pats my arm before exiting my room, leaving me on my own once again.

With my nerves quelled, I'm finally able to close my eyes and enter a deep, dreamless sleep.