Page 37 of Bishop

Relief slightly eases my suffering as I spy my prize and rush toward it. I open the clasp, scavenge inside, and…nothing.

My fingers brush over lipstick. Breath mints. Stun gun. Credit card. But no vial.

“You won’t find it,” he grates.

My pulse spikes, the adamant beats of my heart thunderous.

“I confiscated the blow,” he clarifies.

I drop my clutch to the floor and storm for him. “Where’s my vial?” I suck in air, but nothing fills my lungs.

I need that coke. Not a lot. Just enough to mask the fears. To kill the demons.

“You’re not getting it back, belladonna.”

“Don’t do this to me.” I grab his jacket, my arms shaking, and shove my hand inside his pocket, searching for relief. “I’m serious.”

“And you think I’m not?” He snatches my wrist, his grip threateningly tight. “Don’t make it a challenge to get you sober, because once that switch is flipped you’ll never see rails again.”

“I’m not a junkie.”

“Well, you’re sure reading from the script.”

“My father just died,” I scream. “God forbid I want something to dull the edge.”

“Then pick another vice, because you’re done with drugs.”

I stumble backward, sucking in breath after breath, my lungs on fire, my face aflame.

Life may be challenging with me, Abri, but it will be hell once I’m gone.

“No.” I shake my head and hunch over. “I…I have panic attacks.”

“Then you need to slow your pulse. Not put your heart under more pressure.” He walks up to me and captures my arms to guide me backward.

“Don’t.” I fight against him, trying to punch. Thump. Strike. But he’s too strong. “Bishop. I’m begging you.”

He forces me into the bathroom where the panic increases. The soul-screaming, arrhythmia-inducing fear suffocates every inch of my body.

He takes me to the open-ended shower. “This will help.”

I barely hear him over the deafening pulse in my ears, my arduous breaths gasping from my lips. I’m going to have a heart attack.

He releases one of my arms and leans into the shower to turn on the water.

I use the slight freedom to yank at the neck of my shirt. To tug at the scarf.

I need air.

“You’ll be okay.” Bishop grabs my chin, raising my face to meet his. “I’ll help you.”

I shake my head, my lungs heaving. Nobody can help me.

Nobody but my dead father and my missing mother.

I’m alone. Completely isolated. Trapped.

I hyperventilate. Wheeze. Sway.

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