Page 69 of Crushed Vow
But it’s hard not to feel something... for someone you love.
Even when you want to hate them.
Even when you should.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under—but not into rest.
Into memory.
Into hell.
I was in the ward again.
Cold white walls. Screams behind closed doors. The sharp scent of antiseptic and old blood.
Doctor Hargrove’s voice pierced the air, calm and cruel.
“Resist, and we restrain you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I sobbed. “Please. Please don’t touch me—”
Steel cuffs bit into my wrists.
Another needle. Another silence.
Then came the darkness again. That awful darkness, when I didn’t know my name, my face, or if I was even still alive.
And then—I was back in the chair. The padded one.
The one they strapped me to for twelve hours a day.
I screamed.
Thrashed.
Begged.
“I’ll be good! Please! Don’t take my memories again—please! I want to go home—I want to go home—”
I thrashed out of sleep with a sob, my whole body shaking, drenched in sweat.
Everything was wrong. My room was wrong. The air felt thick and sterile like the ward again. I couldn’t breathe.
I hurled the nearest lamp across the floor. A framed photo crashed down beside it. I was gasping now, clawing at my skin, trying to wake myself up, trying to find the door.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. My hands flailed for the corners of the room, my knees dragging me backwards, frantically knocking over the lamp as I crawled into a corner.
I’m still there. I never left. They came for me again.
The door creaked.
Footsteps.
No.
They’re back.
My chest heaved as I backed into the corner, throwing a pillow like it might save me.
