Page 41 of Irreversible

The injections were filled with medication, causing multiple eggs to grow and mature, followed by a dose of hCG. Then my follicles were stolen from my womb by a needle and a suction device.

It’s sick and twisted.

Someone out there haspaidfor this.

Turning, I face the wall, waiting for Nick’s inevitable ambush of questions.

They never come.

I step forward and press both palms to the white divider, dropping the tip of my nose against the cool surface. My eyes close. “Nick?”

Nothing.

I slide down the wall until my knees hit the cot, biting my tongue to keep the cry in my throat. “Nick.” His name falls out cracked and broken, and I hate myself for showing weakness.I need to stay strong. Be brave.I need to be a fighter. “Say something…”

Seconds trickle by like grains of sand, slipping through an hourglass.

Thirty-seven seconds.

“Who was that?”

I blink my lids back open, my lashes damp. He doesn’t sound like himself. The question is strained, too soft, like he’s hardly keeping himself together. Empathy pokes holes through my pain. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

He’s not fine. I’m not sure why, but I can only assume it has something to do with our conversation from earlier.

The guitar pick. Music.

Annie.

Nick misses somebody.

“It’s your turn to tell me a story,” I murmur, my lips grazing the wall as I speak.

A beat passes. “I’m the trapped audience, remember? You’re the storyteller.”

“I think I’m all out of stories right now. Unless you want me to start reading out loud from one of the books I have over here.”

“The eighties bodice rippers?”

I stretch a small smile. “Yeah.”

“Once upon a time…” Familiar sarcasm laces his tone, but the words trail off quickly. A quiet hum fills the space between us. “So, the owner of this guitar pick…let’s say she got her first instrument as a little girl. It was just a toy, impossible to tune. She was so proud that she could make her own music. It never left her sight…tortured her family relentlessly with it.”

I imagine Annie as a young girl, around eight or nine years old. Coffee-brown pigtails and hazel-spun eyes. I picture herwith thick bangs, dimples, and a charming gap between her two top teeth as she toted around a toy guitar, the strap hanging off a lanky shoulder. My smile grows tenfold as I settle against the wall and brush my thumb along the smooth pick.

“It got to the point where she’d sit at the dinner table and punctuate everyone’s sentences with musical interludes. Like a dissonant chord for suspense, or a minor chord during something sad. And different notes for question marks and exclamation points.”

“I love that.”

“No, it was completely obnoxious.”

His tone betrays him, and my lips twitch with endearment.

“Soon, she collected other instruments. Some from thrift stores, others hand-me-downs from nice neighbors and whatnot. Her family didn’t have much money, just enough to get by, so they were never great, but she made it work.”

“Resourceful. I like her.”

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