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“Stop!” I growled angrily, even though I was alone in the room. “Just fucking stop talking.”

My mind was playing tricks on me, making me feel anxious and on edge, and I had the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach. My anxiety was so strong I could taste it.

Painkillers, my ass. This was something that fucked with my head.

Nobody was listening to me.

I kept telling everyone that something wasn’t right, and they responded by telling me that everything was fine and then dosing me up with more of whatever the hell was currently flushing through my veins.

I knew they were wrong, but I couldn’t see straight, never mind make sense of my worry. The more they didn’t take me seriously, the more anxious I grew until I was drowning in concern over something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

It was a horrendous fucking feeling.

My mind was reeling, only one word playing inside my head like a broken record.

Father.

And only one voice repeating that same word over and over again.

Shannon.

I had no idea why I was reacting the way I was, but my heart was going ninety. I knew this because every time I thought about her, the machine I was hooked up to started beeping and flashing.

I didn’t cope well with anxiety. It just wasn’t in me. Adrenaline, absolutely, but fear? No, I didn’t fucking do well with fear. Especially when the fear in my heart was for another person.

When I did manage to train my eyes on the television, I kept thinking,“What the fuck is Pat doing on the telly?” The Late Late Showwas a Friday night program, but hey—what the hell did I know? Not a lot, apparently, since I couldn’t distinguish between what night of the week it was.

Sagging back on the mattress, I blinked away the drowsiness and tried to think clearly. Furious, I twisted my head from side to side, seeking more. Something wasn’t right. In my head. In my body. I felt like I was trapped, a prisoner of this bleeding bed, and it sucked balls.

Pissed off with the world and everyone in it, I tapped my fingers against the mattress and did a recount of the ceiling tiles.

One hundred and thirty-nine.

Christ, I needed out of this room. I wanted to go home.

ToCork.

Yeah, I was that fucking desperate that I didn’t want to be in Dublin anymore. I was having a come-to-Jesus moment and wanted nothing more than to be back home in Ballylaggin, surrounded by all that was familiar to me.

To be back home with Shannon.

Jesus, I messed up real bad with her. I reacted horribly. I was an eejit.

Anger swelled up inside of me again, joined by the depression and devastation that followed every time I thought about what my future held—which was every minute of the day.

Pain? I was in a hell of a lot of pain, but my body was the least of my worries right now. Because I had lost hold of my bleeding senses. My head was gone, lost, back in Cork with a fucking girl.

Bored and restless, I glanced out the hospital window at the darkened sky and then back to the television screen.

Fuck this.

Reaching for my phone, I shakily scrolled through my contacts, struggling to make out the names through the haze until I found the number I had dialed at least twelve times in the past god knows how many hours or days, and pressed CALL.

With a great deal of effort, I managed to hold the phone to my ear and waited with bated breath, listening to the obnoxiousring-ringsound until I was greeted by his monotone voicemail.

“Joey.” Sitting forward, I tried to shift into an upright position, only to end up pulling on some wires attached to my body that had no business being there. “Call me back.” Exhaling a pained grunt when I felt a stinging sensation shoot up my legs, I focused on getting the next sentence out without slurring. “I need to talk to her.” I was fairly sure I slurred my words anyway, considering my voice sounded foreign to me. “I don’t know what’s happening, Joey. Maybe I’m fucked in the head, I’m high as balls, but I’m worried. I’ve got this bad fucking feeling—”

Beep.

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