Chapter Text
It was pure luck that you even made it out alive, but you did. That luck came from those experienced in the medical world.
Despite surviving the events that Thornhill decided to impose you couldn’t help but think back on it.
“You’re practically perfect for this…but there is one flaw, and it’s that damn Addams always having an eye on you…ugh.” Her face was full of maniacal joy but turned bitter with disdain for the girl.
You remember being drugged by her to even have that conversation. You wished you had seen the signs or even taken notice of her weird behavior towards you, but your cousins always laughed and never gave a proper answer. You hated those damn gargoyles.
The hospital bed you were lying on could’ve been more comfortable, but then again you are covered in wounds thanks to Thornhill’s later victim; Tyler Galpin.
You were amazed you even survived the blood loss, but you had your connections. Said connection is right by your side looking down at you like a worried mother.
“Ms. Weems… why are you still here? It’s been two weeks…” You croaked out. Your voice had not been used in a couple of days; you didn’t find a reason to use it in the first place besides talking with the nurses about pain level and the occasional prick of a needle. Plus you’ve only seen the doctor once and that was a week ago.
“I have your progress report,” Her voice was flat but there was a slight tremor in it; just barely.
“Do I have another week or is it worse?”
Weems slid the report onto your lap before pinching the bridge of her nose. It was the first genuine sign of exhaustion you'd ever seen from her.
"The doctors insist you'll be discharged in a few days," she said quietly. "I find their optimism... premature."
Your gaze drifted to the pain scale pinned beside the bed. Seven. Maybe six if you were generous. Every breath still tugged at half-healed stitches beneath the bandages.
"The police?" you asked.
She folded her arms. "Nothing. They couldn't identify the poison used on you. No source. No supplier." Her jaw tightened. "I'm beginning to think they've stopped believing anything connected to Nevermore."
Your stomach twisted.
"Thornhill knows what it was."
Weems looked up sharply.
"Then we'll question her."
"No."
The word came out harsher than you intended.
Silence settled between you.
Weems studied your face, her expression narrowing. "Why not?"
Your fingers curled into the blanket until your knuckles ached.
"...Because if she's anywhere near you..." Your throat tightened. "She'll try again."
The room became impossibly still.
"...What did she do?"
You shut your eyes, drawing in a slow, shaky breath.
"She didn't just poison me."
The ache stretched from head to toe, every wound, cut, and bruise demanding attention like no other beneath the fresh bandages. Yet, none of it compared to the weight pressing against your chest as your heartbeat thundered in your ears.
"But if I say any more... she'll have my head on a platter." The words came through gritted teeth as your jaw locked tight, trying to ignore the relentless pounding of your heart.
Weems' expression hardened.
"Look at me."
You hesitated.
"Whatever she threatened you with," she said, her voice low and measured, "she will not touch you again."
You closed your eyes, but the darkness behind your eyelids only sharpened the image of Thornhill's smile.
It was dark.
There was a strip of fabric wrapped around your head to cover your eyes and a separate one for your mouth.
The slow click of heels echoed through the room, circling you endlessly before finally stopping.
Suddenly you’re blinded by white lights as the cloth binding your eyes gets ripped off.
After your eyes finally adjust while a stray tear falls and gets sucked up by the cloth in your mouth you see her.
Thornhill.
“There you are. I’ve been waiting ages for you to wake up!” She cracks a smile baring all her teeth.
You try to speak but it gets muffled by the cloth; keeping you silent.
“Hush now. The professor is speaking~” She cocks her head to the side before continuing, “Do you know how difficult it is to find someone like you? Hm?”
Your eyebrows furrow together; unsure of what she’s talking about.
“Don’t look at me like that! You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Her anger floods the room quicker than gas can escape, “Someone with blood that refuses to behave the way that it should.”
You felt the warmth of her spit land against your cheek. Your face twisted in disgust as you turned away.
A sharp crack split through the room.
Your head snapped to the side before you even realized she'd struck you.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” She huffs out, “You’ll be my first success…”
She gets closer. Grabbing a hold of your chin to make you look up at her, “Or my most interesting failure.”
She holds on tighter, “Either way, you’ll be useful.”
When you opened your eyes again, Thornhill's voice still lingered in your mind.
"She said I was perfect..." Your breath caught. "A perfect test subject..."
Weems releases a quiet breath and takes the report off your lap and returns it to her binder that’s nearby. When she returns, she lets her hand settle on your shoulder.
“Thank you for trusting me with that information,” she said. “I’ll keep a closer eye on Thornhill and begin making revisions to your schedule for the next semester.”
You look up at her, expecting the same practiced expression the nurses wore whenever they checked on you. But this was different.
Her smile was gentle. Genuine.
Slowly, your fingers loosened around the blanket. The exhaustion, the fear, the constant need to stay guarded; it all became too heavy to carry for another moment.
You leaned your head against her arm.
“Thank you…”
The next few days blurred together as one; nearly identical to the last.
The nurses had their shifts, every one checking the same things, asking the same questions, and offering the same reassurance.
The dosage stayed the same at first, but eventually they began lowering it to prevent dependence. The headaches, restlessness, and discomfort were manageable, but it was another reminder that your body was still not your own.
The symptoms were manageable.
The repetition wasn't.
Every damned nurse there had the same phrase: “Healing takes time.”
You were ready to throw a punch if it was repeated, but you knew better.
You started to keep a mental tally every time it was said.
The final count?
186.
By then it was finally time to leave the hospital.
Weems stayed by your side helping you get dressed for discharge, guiding your arms into the sleeves of an intentionally oversized shirt so that it doesn’t catch on any of the bandages. Every movement was slow and deliberate; she learned over the past couple of weeks, exactly how much pressure you could tolerate before your body involuntarily tensed.
“No uniform until you’re completely healed. Loose clothes only. I’ll have Enid bring in your coursework.”
“I can make it to class.” The words coming out flatter than you intended. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You won’t be.”
“Still…” You huffed, pulling the shirt over your head finally. The fabric swallowing most of the fresh gauze, but some strips peaked out along your neck; where Tyler had gotten you with his claws.
Weems smoothed the fabric over your back with featherlight fingers, avoiding the worst of the damage. The same careful touch she used just days ago when you leaned into her arms, too exhausted to keep your walls up.
“Enid won’t mind,” she added softly. “She’s been asking about you.”
You sighed. Arguing with the principal was pointless; especially when she’s already seen you at your worse. You turned to face her.
“Thanks for being here.”
Her smile was small, private. The same one she’d given you when you finally told her the truth about Thornhill.
“You’re welcome.”
At the gates, you stopped.
The Parking lot stretched before you. Normal. Unremarkable. Yet your feet wouldn’t move.
Weems paused beside you; studying your face. “Most people would be elated to leave. Why aren’t you?”
You stared at the car. At the road leading back to Nevermore. At the world that had nearly killed you and then expected you to just… continue.
“Because the last time I left a building,” you said quietly, “I woke up tied to a chair with fabric in my mouth.”
The words hung between you.
Weems didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer hollow reassurance. She just stood there, solid and present; the way she had been everyday for several weeks.
“I’m not most people,” you finished and even to your own ears, it sounded less like defiance and more like grief.
“That you are not.” A soft, but sad chuckle escaped her.
You forced your gaze forward again. Let Weems guide you into the car with that same gentle hand on your back; right where the scars would form.
The door closed.
For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, you weren’t sure if you were being discharged or just moved to a different cage.