Page 18 of Monster
Essa
Six months ago
Joyceand some other nurse come in and move me to the bathroom. They sit me on the toilet while Joyce turns the shower on and the other one grabs a washcloth and sets it in the shower. Once the room is comfortably warm from the steam of the shower, Joyce turns back to glance at me with a delicate smile on her face, but it doesn’t match her eyes. No, her eyes are full of pity. I close mine and turn my head away.
I don’t fucking need anyone’s pity, nor do I fucking want it and I tell them both as much.
“We know, honey, and I promise you it’s not that,” she sighs. “We have a lot to talk about. But first, let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” She nods in the direction of the shower, and I nod back in reply, not bothering to move. She asks if she can help me undress and again, I nod. She and the other nurse both take their time undressing me from the wretched hospital gown they had me in, and they toss it in the linen basket. They both then grip underneath my arms and lift me, carrying me to the shower. I help somewhat, and lift my legs as they haul me over the edge of the tub. When they let go, I drop to my ass and crash to the bottom of the tub.
Joyce sighs again but lets me be. I hear her whisper to the other nurse to get the room cleaned and that she’s got this. I would roll my eyes, but that would take too much energy and at this point, I have none. I close my eyes and lean my head forward to rest on my knees which are pulled up in front of me. The water is running over the back of my head and my long black hair hangs in my face in wet tendrils.
I freeze when I feel a hand on my upper back but relax slightly when I remember it’s Joyce.
“It’s just me, baby,” she whispers as she runs the washcloth back and forth across my back. I peek my head up slightly and see she's sitting on the edge of the tub and her entire right side is getting soaked from the water falling above us both.
“You can go,” I murmur. “I don’t want or need your help.” I drop my head again. Even the effort it takes to hold it up is too much.
“Baby, you may not want my help, but you sure as hell need it. Just like you need Dominik’s too. I can understand the anger you have toward him, but he’s done nothin’ but help you. He’s thrown his entire life away to sit next to you in the hospital bed these last couple of weeks.” She sighs again and a spark of irritation crawls up my spine, giving back a shred of energy.
“Why the fuck are you always sighing?” I bark out. “You act like it’s an inconvenience to take care of me. I never asked for it.” Her hand moving across my back freezes as she takes in my words. She resumes after only faltering for a moment and when she does, she gathers my hair into her hand and moves it to the side.
“Dominik adores you so much already. That boy has a heart of gold, even after everything he’s been through. All he wants is to help you. To save you.” She begins to wash my hair and a light shudder runs through me when she rubs her fingers against my scalp, working the soap into a thick lather. For good reason too because I can’t even remember the last time I showered. I can’t be bothered to care.
“And you should let him…” she trails off. My entire body locks up as my heart attempts to beat out of my chest. I feel warm water run down my back as she begins rinsing out my hair, acting like she didn’t say something completely ridiculous.
“I—” I can’t even fathom what to say. I was so fucking sure of what I wanted. Of what I’ve always wanted—death. But now, I’m conflicted, and it pisses me off. All because of one guy who tried to be a fucking hero. I know I don’t owe him a thing, but that’s just it. I don’t feel indebted to him, not one bit. He makes me feel wanted. He makes me feel okay. He gives me the tiniest shred of hope and it fucking terrifies me.
Hope is dangerous. Hope is heartache. Hope is a fucking death sentence, only in the end, you don’t get the relief death brings. Hope is worse than death itself and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Now, I’m stuck living in it, knowing in the end, I’ll be worse off. But fuck if I can help it because that green eyed, curly haired boy who saved my life is making me feelthingsagain.
Joyce finishes up with my hair and I lift my head right as she gets down on her knees in front of the tub. She runs her hand along my cheek and gives me a smile—a real one. Not one full of pity or sadness and again, I feel the tiniest little spark of hope.
“You’re gonna be okay. I just know it.” She winks and stands. “You get off your booty and wash up girl, you need it,” she gently chastises me. I feel a small smirk of my own grace my lips and give her a small nod. She returns my smile before leaving the bathroom, shutting the door behind her, but leaving a gap so she can still listen for me. It’s annoying, but I also understand she’s simply doing her job—I am on suicide watch after all.
I take a deep breath and brace my hands on either side of the tub and push myself into a standing position. The boot on my leg is bulky and soaked from the water, making it feel even heavier. I don’t know why they didn’t take it off, but I guess I wouldn’t be able to shower by myself without it.
My entire body aches and the bandage around my torso will need to be changed after this. Joyce must have removed the one that was on my head before she began washing my hair because it’s not there anymore. I’m constantly lost inside of my head; I don’t fucking notice much.
I reach down and grab the washcloth and add soap to it. I bring it to my stomach and begin washing myself, moving the cloth in small circles. The movement reminds me of Vincent. Of us in the shower. Of him kissing my scars. I move down to the junction of my legs to clean the blood and nausea rolls through my stomach, and I rest my head against the shower wall, fighting through it until it passes. I know I’m not nauseous because of what he did, but because of whatIdid and what I’m doing now. I probably fucking killed him. I murdered a man I can’t believe I actually cared for even after everything he put me through and yet again, I’m still fucking alive.
I finish washing myself and then rinse quickly. I shut the water off and step out onto the cold linoleum floor beneath me. Chills crawl across my body as I walk over to the towels, my boot dragging because it’s too heavy for me to lift my foot, and grab one, wrapping it around myself. I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection.
A paler version of myself stares back at me. She has big, black circles underneath her dull green eyes and scars scattered across every exposed inch of skin. She looks utterly broken and abused. Finally, my outside appearance matches the Creep I am on the inside. A match made in fucking heaven.
