Page 13 of Promises in the Dark

“This is ridiculous,” I yelled, still yanking at the restraints like a caged animal.

The frustration was eating me alive, especially with her walking off like she didn’t give a fuck.

The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the worn-out wooden floor. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly, fading away as she moved further and further from me. It was infuriating, the way she effortlessly glided away, leaving me behind without a second thought.

She sure as hell knew how to piss me off.

I lay back, glaring at the ceiling, every muscle in my body tense as hell. The door creaked open, and the nurse walked in, her steps silent as a mouse. Not that it mattered—I knew she was there anyway.

Her lame-ass hazel eyes were sparkling with bullshit and fake kindness, while her brown hair was falling down her shoulders, framing her plain face, trying to look sexy but failing big time.

Fucking vulture.

It was the same one that helped Doc patching me up. She approached me with that kind smile, her eyes scanning my battered body like she was circling fresh roadkill.

And then I saw the perfect opportunity to appeal to her empathy. It was a risk, but I’ve always been one to take chances.

“You’re here to change the bandages, huh?” I asked, trying to sound vulnerable, playing the game. “Rough day, and these cuffs ain’t helping.” Her eyes softened, sympathy creeping in. Fuck, she might fall for it.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir. I’ll do my best to make it as quick and painless as possible,” she said, her voice sounding sickly sweet.

I sighed, letting a bit of that weariness creep into my voice, just enough to sell it. “I appreciate it. You know, beingstuck here, unable to move or do shit, it’s like having my freedom ripped right the fuck away.”

And then there was the goddamn catheter. That thing was the worst. Made me feel like some decrepit old man who couldn’t even control his own fucking bladder.

My fists clenched as the nurse’s gloved hands brushed against my skin, her fingers grazing my torso like she was trying to be delicate or some shit. She worked quietly, removing the filthy bandages, her touch light but annoyingly efficient. Every part of me screamed to jerk away, shove her off, but I forced myself to stay still. This crap was for my own good, I reminded myself.

I fucking hated being touched, especially like this—when it wasn’t in the middle of a fight. Every graze of her fingers felt like nails on a chalkboard, unsettling and wrong. But I pushed through, gritting my teeth, focusing on my breathing to stay grounded, trying not to snap.

I knew she was watching me, her curiosity lit up like a neon sign. She probably thought I was some pitiful case.

So, I leaned into it, let myself look a bit more vulnerable. I winced, maybe a little too much, as her fingers brushed over my injured stomach.

“Shit, that hurts.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. Real professional. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, with more routine sympathy than actual feeling. “We’ll do what we can to help manage your pain, but…” She hesitated, her gaze darting briefly to the nearly empty supply cart before meeting mine again. “Supplies are limited right now, so we’re a bit stretched thin. Just hang in there, okay?”

It wasn’t the first excuse I’d heard since ending up in this shithole, and I doubted it’d be the last. Managing my pain—whata joke. Without the good stuff, all they had to offer was a smile and some weak-ass platitudes.

I nodded, my gaze meeting hers, a glimmer of desperation convulsed in my eyes. Inside, it made me sick to my stomach. Playing the weak-ass, grateful patient was the kind of thing that made me want to vomit, but I had to go with the act. If there was any chance of her loosening those straps and giving me the opening I needed, I’d have to keep pretending I was some helpless little lamb in need of her damn sympathy.

“Thank you,” I politely said, but not entirely sincere. “Your care means a lot to me. It’s just... I feel so trapped, so helpless in this situation. Is there anything that can be done?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I could taste the bile in my throat saying that shit. Acting like a whiny little bitch went against every fiber of my being, but desperate times, right?

Her eyes softened, her empathy kicking in like clockwork. She was actually considering it, maybe even thinking about bending the rules.

“I understand,” she replied softly. “It must be hard, feeling so limited. But sometimes, we all need a little help to heal, to regain our strength.”

I nodded earnestly, keeping my gaze locked with hers. “That’s exactly it. And sometimes, that help can come from unexpected sources.”

My mother’s annoying voice echoed in my head, always comparing me to Hugh Grant, the epitome of British male attractiveness according to her. I heard that shit a million fucking times, but it never meant a damn thing to me.

“You have his eyes,” she’d say a million fucking times. I got her blue eyes, sure, but that was about all I inherited before she disappeared like a ghost.

My father? That was a different story.

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