Chapter Text
‘I still can’t believe it. After everything I did for him, y’know. I treated him better than his own mother.’ Grace shoves an armful of white linens into the industrial washer and slams the door shut with such force that the sound reverberates through the room.
‘Oh baby, I get it. ‘Fore I found my Paul I met a few bad ones myself.’ Belinda shakes her head. ‘They can be very… enticing.’
‘I just can’t believe he cheated on me again. He swore it was over!’ She presses a button on the machine and it rattles to life.
‘And you believe everything he tells you, why?’ Belinda raises one of her painted brows, which earns an eyeroll from Grace.
The pair join you at the folding table as you sluggishly make your way through a pile of fresh bedsheets. They exchange careful glances as they take their places at either side of you, the same glance they’d exchanged just over an hour ago—before the shift had started—when you had limped into the staff room with your head almost parallel to the ground and slipped off to the lockers without a word. Grace and Belinda were used to it. Most days you were fine; you’d arrive your typical warm self, usually with a new recipe you were working on for them to try, but occasionally you’d come in quiet, head down, and work the shift in silence. On those days you’d wear heavy makeup and long sleeves, and your eyes never met those around you. Belinda had tried once, while you were making yourself some tea in the breakroom, to ask if you were okay, and you’d carefully nodded, saying you weren't feeling well. But the signs had always been there, and though they were worried, there was nothing they could do.
But today is different. The limp is bad, and every movement you make seems to elicit sharp, shooting pains that have you briefly incapacitated and breathing deep. The thick layer of makeup you put on this morning does a poor job at hiding the dark swollen bruise surrounding your left eye or the open cut beneath it, and the white of your eye partially blooms into a bright red. The injuries are worse than they have ever seen.
‘Doing okay, Hon?’ Belinda tries carefully, attention fixed on the sheet in her own hands as she skilfully folds it into a neat rectangle. She’s worked here for years; everything comes as naturally as breathing to her. You nod stiffly, and Belinda notices the wince that clouds your face.
‘It’s just…’ She pauses. ‘It seems to me that you’re in a pretty bad way. How about you go rest in the break room and we’ll handle the hard stuff today?’
You stop folding and look up at her, confusion etched into your bruised face, before nodding once more and moving for the door to the hallway, but you don't reach it. As you turn from the table, you feel the urge to throw up for the fifth or sixth time today, but your stomach is empty. The room is bathed in bright fluorescent lights that brighten with every deafening beat of your heart, and everything seems to be rippling around you, unfixed and liquid. You hold out your hand to grip onto something, anything around that would support your weight, but find nothing, and you fall to the floor with a loud thud as darkness seeps into your mind.
Grace shrieks as Belinda rushes to your side and rolls you into the recovery position. Yellow bile leaks from your mouth onto the floor. You quickly come to again, but Belinda is already instructing Grace to call 911 and request an ambulance. As she cradles the side of your disoriented head in her calloused hand, she notices the back of your head oozing blood. She holds your waist with her other hand to keep you still. You try to move, but Belinda speaks calmly.
‘Don’t move now, sweetheart, you’ve just collapsed. We’re gonna get you to the hospital. I need you to stay still for me, okay?’ Her words are honey-sweet, and though her hold is firm, it retains a motherly grip.
You lose consciousness twice more before the ambulance arrives, waking almost immediately both times. Your head is pounding, and your body feels foreign, like you’re not the one in control. The paramedics, whom you can’t seem to get a clear view of, busy themselves testing your heart rate and breathing. They equip you with a cervical collar, then shine a small light into both eyes before pulling a mask over your face to supply you with a steady flow of oxygen. They resolve to get you to the hospital and carefully lift you onto the stretcher they’d wheeled in.
Your mind is completely muddled, and the harder you try to fight the drowsiness and think clearly, the worse the pounding in your head becomes. The paramedics ask questions as they wheel you through the halls of the hotel, but you can’t hear them over the thumping. The ride to the hospital is much the same, bright lights and confusion, but you know that Belinda is there, and something about her presence in the back of this ambulance eases the heaviness from your chest.
—
In Ohio, you’d rented a small cabin from a man named Henry Keegan. You’d been on the road for quite some time, and Taylor had promised you that your endless days of running were over. Mr Keegan, a lonely old widower, owned the general store in town. It didn’t get many customers as the town was small and in the middle of nowhere, but the business he received from the townsfolk was enough to keep it open.
You spent a lot of time with Mr Keegan over the months you lived in his run-down cabin. You became close friends over ice-cold lemonade on hot summer days, which led to Mr Keegan offering you a job in his store. It was more than you could’ve hoped for, and you spent the subsequent weeks begging Taylor to let you try it, to which he eventually gave in.
You worked in the store for a couple hours each morning—except Sundays—and soon enough you knew almost everyone in town. They all adored you, you always had a smile on your face and a kind word to say, and everyone who shopped at Mr Keegan’s was treated to one of your creations, delicious baked goods you’d spent hours making. You fell in love with the town, and hoped your stay would be permanent.
The fantasy shattered on an early Wednesday afternoon. You had finished work for the day, and were on your way home with groceries Mr Keegan had insisted you take. The colder months were setting in, and the long sleeves you always wore actually made sense. You made your way down the main road, passing by the few stores that lined the street. The wind pricked your skin through the knitted fabric of your jumper, and you regretted not bringing a coat with you from home.
One of the local boys, Barry Elbertson, rolled up beside you in his rusted baby blue truck, and it sputtered to a stop.
‘Awful cold to walk home, Miss Y/N. Want a ride?’ He was a sweet boy, and the smile on his face resembled his mother’s, who shopped at Mr Keegan’s twice a week.
‘Sure, thanks Barry.’
During the drive to the cabin, the two of you spoke about school, and how Barry was handling schoolwork alongside his new responsibilities on his parents’ farm.
Taylor was sitting on the steps of the cabin, almost at the end of his cigarette. You felt a breath catch in your chest at the sight of him as he watched the truck pull up. Barry remarked about his being home early, to which you smiled and thanked him for the ride. Taylor’s eyes fixed on you as you hopped out of the truck. Walking down the small path you’d been nurturing for months, lined with little flowers that had started to wilt in the cold. The expression on his face betrayed him, a stern reflection of suspicion, and you felt the tightness of the air in your chest.
‘Why were you with that kid?’ His tone was accusing.
‘He gave me a ride from the store, it was cold.’ You spoke carefully, but when you came within his reach, he pulled you by the arm and shoved you toward the house.
‘Get inside.’ His words were quiet, but you felt a familiar fear course through your veins as you rubbed the stinging skin.
It was different this time; it had never been this bad before. After he had gone to bed, you waited an hour or two to make sure he was asleep. You knew there was something seriously wrong with your shoulder, the arm hung at an odd angle, and the pain that radiated from it was unbearable. You sat on the couch where he’d ordered you after he'd gotten tired and given up, the tears that periodically fell from your eyes diluting the coagulated blood that had flowed out from the wounds on your face.
You had two options. You could either go now. Leave all of it behind and try to figure things out for yourself. It’d be the hardest thing you’d ever do, but you knew that it was necessary, as the other option would leave you in the exact same position, over and over and over again without reprieve. Staying with him, leaving everything as is, would likely lead to something worse than this.
You thought it over until you worked up the courage and stood, wincing from the pain in your arm. You crept to the door, picking the keys up out of the porcelain holder on the table, and left. You took his truck and drove in painful silence, obsessing over what you were doing, losing your mind to the fear engulfing it. You drove to the nearest city, a few hours away. There was a hospital there. Nothing huge, a trauma clinic of sorts, but you parked the truck and made your way in.
The first person to see you, an older nurse, went white as a sheet as you appeared before her. The blood from your facial wounds and the awkwardness of your arm hanging from its socket was enough to start a fire under her, and the nurse quickly ushered you into the emergency room to be seen by a doctor.
You’d spent hours there as they cleaned up your wounds and sewed you up. They also relocated your shoulder, which was more painful than letting it hang out of the socket. A portly doctor with curly brown hair and rectangle framed glasses told you to wait in the cubicle, that he’d be back in a while. What you weren't aware of was the fact that Taylor had heard you leave and followed you the entire way. By the time the doctor returned with a few questions, he’d brought Taylor in with him, whom he’d described as being ‘sick with worry’ in the waiting room.
You were petrified of him, and when the doctor asked about your injuries and how you’d gotten them in front of the person who gave them to you, you practically shut down. You told him some lie about a car accident. That seemed to satisfy the doctor—who didn’t appear as though he actually cared—and you were discharged into Taylor’s care.
When you’d gotten back home, Taylor spent hours yelling at you and telling you that you’d never get far enough from him. It was a day you’d always hoped you would forget, but it remained as one of the most steadfast memories in your mind. It was the night that everything changed. When the violence had first started you’d believed him every time he’d apologised, you’d believed everything he’d said, because you loved him, and you wanted to trust him. But something in you broke that night, when you realised he would never change, he’d never stop. You’d felt the full weight of your future resting on your pained shoulders, and you could see your end in sight. There would never be anything else for you. This was what you’d chosen for yourself, and you’d have to live with it for the rest of your life.
—
They wheel you into the hospital and a million hands start touching you, moving and bumping you about. It’s almost unbearable. You want to scream and tell them to leave you alone. You want to rest, to shut your eyes and let the numb tingling sensation in your head make its way through your body. But they prod at you, and force your eyes open, more blinding light streaming in. You would cry if you could. You yell, screaming for them to stop, but it comes out as an incoherent garbled moan.
Someone moves to you right—backlit by the fluorescent lighting—and peers over your nearly useless body. Their face comes into view, and your eyes try to adjust in and out of blurriness. It’s a man. His hair is greying, and his soft eyes peer down at you. The gentleness on his face is a gut punch. Where pity usually sits, his face reflects kindness. You try to focus on the movement of his mouth.
‘...hear me?’
‘Huh?’ It’s quiet and strangled, but he takes it as a sign you can hear him.
‘I’m Doctor Jack Abbot. You’re at PTMC. You had a bad fall from a possible concussion. We’re going to do some tests and figure out our course of action from there. You’re in safe hands.’
‘I’m Doctor Ellis, can you tell us your name?’ Another voice chimes in, smooth and sure, from beside the man.
‘...Uh, Y/N.’ Your voice is shaky and hoarse, unsure of itself.
‘Okay Y/N, we’re going to get you down to imaging for a CT.’ The woman informs as the gurney starts moving again.
An excruciating few hours later, you’re back in the emergency room with Belinda at your bedside. You don’t speak, you’re quiet and still feeling somewhat confused, though your condition is slightly improving. Belinda is trying to be discreet about the tears falling from her eyes, though you're aware of the intermittent sniffling and what it means.
The glass-paned doors swing open, and the same two doctors from before enter. One holds a file in her hands as she walks over to the computer and scans her badge to unlock it; she starts typing. The other looks at you with a small smile on his face. His eyes are almost glittering in the hospital lights, and they meet yours without shame, without pity.
‘Y/N, do you remember us? We met earlier.’ He moves closer to your bed and stands at the foot of it.
‘You’re um, Doctor Ellis?’
The doctor at the computer chuckles as she turns around to face you and Belinda, muttering ‘he wishes,’ under her breath.
‘I’m Dr Ellis.’ She points to her colleague, ‘he’s Dr Abbot.’
‘How’re you feeling Y/N?’ Dr Abbot asks.
‘Not great. I don’t really know what happened.’
‘That’s okay. You’re stable now, but you had a mild brain bleed. That’s why you were losing consciousness and experiencing your other symptoms. We’ve put you on some medication, specifically Tranexamic Acid to stop the haemorrhage from getting bigger, some medication to lower your blood pressure, and anticonvulsants to prevent seizures.’ Dr Abbot watches you take it in, but your face doesn’t betray your emotions.
‘You’re also on Acetaminophen for the pain, it’s the best we can give you right now.’ Dr Ellis stands beside the bed, a pitying expression on her face, she knows it won’t do much for the pain.
‘Belinda, could we have a moment alone with Y/N?’ Dr Abbot asks.
‘Of course,’ Belinda snivels as she turns to you. ‘I’ll wait outside, just call if you need me.’ She squeezes your hand and gives you a tear-stained smile before picking up her handbag and leaving. Dr Abbot moves closer and sits down on a stool beside the bed.
‘Y/N, we’re pleased with the progress you’ve made in the past couple hours. A brain bleed is serious, and we want to make sure you’re able to make a full recovery, so we’re doing our best to help you.’ Dr Ellis says.
‘You’re not out of the woods yet, but we’re very hopeful. However…’ Dr Abbot pauses as he exchanges a glance with his colleague. ‘We’re worried about your other injuries. You have a Grade 2 ankle sprain, which means there’s a partial tear to the ligament. It’s quite badly swollen and bruised. There are also the injuries to your head that caused the bleed. Blunt force trauma to your orbital bone with a laceration under your eye—which has a ruptured blood vessel itself—and a pretty bad laceration on the back of your head. That’s not to mention the other more minor bruising and scarring we found while examining you.’ The room falls silent, both doctors waiting for you to speak, to give any explanation aside the obvious. They glance at each other again.
‘To put it plainly, Y/N, we’re worried about you. These injuries are not consistent with natural or accidental causes.’ He tries again, his tone soft and low.
‘I–I was moving things at home. It hit me in the head.’ Your voice barely a whisper, you watch as disappointment trickles into Dr Ellis’ expression.
‘What did?’ Dr Abbot questions. Disappointment has not yet caught up to him. He’s hellbent on helping you.
‘The bed.’
‘Okay, well. We’re going to keep you here for a day—maybe two depending on your condition—to monitor and make sure you’re okay. You can call a nurse if you need anything.’ Dr Ellis doesn’t look at you as she exits the room.
Dr Abbot, though, stays behind. He seems stuck in thought. You watch him, every small movement he makes. His chest moves in and out slowly, deeply. His brows scrunch together ever so slightly, and his brown eyes, round and wide, are reading the heart monitor beside the bed.
‘Y/N.’ He breathes out after an almost-too-long silence. ‘I’m not going to tell you what to do. You’re an adult, and I know this situation, whatever it may be, is not cut and dry. These things… I know how complicated they are. There are always factors that nobody else ever considers, and everything is overwhelming and scary. I understand your reluctance, but you almost died today from the injuries you’ve sustained. You need to put yourself first here. This person—whoever they may be—is not worth protecting.’
A pit forms in your stomach, moving up through your burnt oesophagus, and settling at the base of your throat. You try to swallow it down but fail, and instead, a tear slips from your eye. You’re so tired. You’re tired of everyone, of everything. It’s been such a long time since you were able to make your own choices, and here, you have an opportunity, but you’re frozen by fear, caught in a honeytrap of despair and terror. You’re held down by the consequences of your past choices, and you know, even if you make that choice again, even if you try, he’ll never stop looking for you. It will always end the same way.
But this doctor, looking at you with tenderness and compassion, believes you can do it. He believes in you, and he doesn’t even know you. He wants you to choose yourself, and that look on his face almost makes you believe you can. He smiles again, it’s genuine and pleading. The pressure in your head returns as you try to hold back your tears. You’ve been down this road before, and it didn’t end well. It had only made him angrier, the pain worse. If you tried again, and he found you like he always promised he would, it would likely mean your end.
Your chin quivers as you try to work up the courage again, just as you’ve done before. Dr Abbot sits beside you, giving you time to think it through. His presence is calming, and something about his silence gives you comfort. He sees everything, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s waiting for you to make that choice. The choice that had been taken away from you so many times.
A nurse pushes open the door to the room, and all the quiet peacefulness that had filled the space around you flies out. She says something to Dr Abbot, who stands from his stool, but you can’t hear it over the rapid distorted beating that pounds in your head once more. Standing behind the nurse, staring at you through the glass, is Taylor.