Page 127 of Doesn't Count

Suddenly, that jealousy that was clawing its way out quells, replaced by a burning sympathy.

I clear my throat, “I might know how to help you.”

After some thorough research on my cell that Sam dropped off, I give her the phone number and address to a women's shelter nearby along with my own contact information. There’s a debt that weighs heavily on me to help her and her boys. Maybe this was that secret promise we passed along to each other when our eyes briefly met in the church for the first time.

Before she leaves, I thank her for saving our lives, meaning it with all my heart.

Left alone again with nothing but my corrupted thoughts, I decide to find Oliver. The second the nurse behind the desk disappears, I slip outside of my room, roaming down the hallway.

I peak through every window beside the door of each room, trying to find a familiar face. After the fifth one, the blood in my heart drains. With a shaky hand, I sneak in to find his eyes closed tight. His face is barely recognizable, blacks, blues, and purples hiding his skin webbing out from his cheekbone to his eye and the bridge of his nose. The split on his cheek now closed up, little black threads sticking out holding his skin together.

“Oliver.” My voice cracks, my heart breaking, but he remains still.

I drag a finger over the side of his face that isn’tmasked with bruises as I sit at the edge of his hospital bed. His breath is steady, I watch his chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm. At the very least, he’s alive.

“Take my life instead.”

His devastating words sink deeply into my chest like fingers ripping through my sternum to get to the organ that now weighs heavier than it used to. Watching the terror in his eyes, the swollen veins in his neck pulsing with fury, the helplessness eating him alive. It was torture. Worse than anything those fucks did to me by hand. I loathed the way they instilled such defeat in him. Fucking. Loathed. It.

The sound of the door cracking open elicits a gasp from me. Jumping up, I back into the wall, expecting to find Bordeaux’s grotesque face. Only he’s dead. Just mere minutes ago I washed his blood off of me. Instead, a petite woman with short, graying hair walks in with eyes as wide as a deer caught in the headlights. Though, it’s been many years, I recognize her instantly. Seems she recognizes me as well but isn’t so pleased to see me.

“Ashton, what are you doing here?” Oliver’s mom hisses.

“I-I was just checking on him. I needed to see if he’s okay.” I answer through quivering lips, fighting a sudden urge to cry.

“Obviously he’s not okay!” She snaps, subconsciously gravitating towards her son.

I flinch, the bitterness in her tone evidently directed at me. She sighs when she finally looks at me, really looks. Her eyes roam over my body, taking note of the light bruising on my face and neck, the worst of it covered by my gown.

“I’m sorry, our family has just been through so much.” Her shoulders sag as her rage quickly fizzles out. “I didn’t even have a single second to process that he was finally home before... before he was gone! He left because of you. For the second time, he’s disappearedbecause of you.”

Hot, angry tears drip down her aging face. My mouthwobbles, her accusations so true, but no words can describe how sorry I am, how much I long to have never had this happen. Only it did.

“If I had my way, he would have let me be.” I finally whisper.

Her hand flies to her mouth as if she’s shushing her own self and shakes her head, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. It’s whatImeant.” The tears I’m trying to hold back burn inside my eyes, so much so that I have no choice but to let them fall. “It’s all my fault.”

“Oh God, honey!” She cups the back of my head, pulling me into her.

Despite her motherly instinct to console me, she doesn’t deny my words. I never expected her to, but the silent agreement is crushing.

“I think you should get some rest.” She gives me a tired smile.

“Yeah, okay.” I nod, taking one final look at Oliver before heading back to my room.

The time drags by ever so slowly. Every hour I find myself breaking, sobbing into my arms as I curl up on the hospital bed. Then a small episode of exhaustion would lull me into a nightmare riddled sleep. By the time it’s supposedly morning, my eyes burn from both crying and a lack of uninterrupted rest.

For the sixth time since last night, a nurse comes in to check my vitals. That pity that’s come to wear me down plastered all over her face.

“How are you doing, hon?” She asks in a soothing voice.

I shrug, the truth too much to admit right now. “Fine.”

Removing the blood pressure cuff from my arm, she flinches before asking, “Do you think you might be up for visiting your friend?”

“Oliver?” My breath stalls, hope an evil thing to hold on to.

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