Page 20 of Inevitable Endings
“You—” His voice is hoarse, barely a rasp. “Where… where am I?”
I blink, caught off guard for a second, and then step back into my doctor’s role, slipping into autopilot.
“Westbridge Community Health,” I say calmly, trying to steady the tremble in my hands as I adjust the IV. “You overdosed. You’re stable now. You’re safe.”
His eyes don’t leave me, even as his breath picks up, faster now, uneven. “No... I—I didn’t overdose. I didn’t—”
He struggles to sit up, his body betraying him, the effort too much, and he groans in pain, sinking back against the pillow. His eyes flick to the door like he’s trying to gauge his escape route.
I step forward, reaching to adjust the oxygen mask on his face, but he flinches back, his hands rising to push me away, clumsy and desperate.
“Hey,” I say sharply, my voice low but firm, “you need to calm down.”
His breathing hitches, but his gaze doesn’t soften. “You don’t understand. They—”
Before he can finish, his eyes dart to the side, like he’s listening for something outside of the room. He’s shaking, his face twisted in fear.
“Hey,” I say again, moving closer. “You’re safe now. You’re being treated. Nothing’s coming for you.”
His eyes snap to mine, wide and wild. “They’re coming for all of us.” His voice is a low rasp, as though the words are something he’s been holding back, something gnawing at him.
I frown, my hand hovering over his shoulder, ready to steady him if he tries to move again. “Who’s coming for you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he licks his cracked lips, looking at the door like it’s going to burst open at any moment. His gaze flickers back to me, and there’s something frantic in his eyes.
“The old family,” he whispers, the words barely escaping his lips, but the weight of it is enough to send a chill through the room. He breathes through his teeth, his eyes wild now, almost feverish. “You have no idea... It’s all going to Hell.”
I stare at him, confused and trying to keep my own breathing steady, but something in his words settles in my gut like a stone.
I can’t tell if he’s just high, or if something’s actually happening out there in the world that’s creeping into the walls of this sleepy town. I want to ask more, but before I can open my mouth, his body jerks, his head snapping back like he’s being pulled by some unseen force. The oxygen mask slips from his face, and his breath comes in ragged bursts.
“The streets are going to run red,” he says, barely coherent now. “If you’re still here when it starts, it’ll be too late... it’ll be too late for all of us.”
His voice trails off, and his eyes roll back in his head. He falls limp against the bed, like the weight of his own words has finally dragged him back into unconsciousness.
I stand frozen for a long moment, my mind reeling from what he’s said. The door creaks behind me, and I turn to see Sawyer standing there, looking in. His expression is unreadable as usual, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells me he’s heard every word.
“You heard that?” I ask, my voice more steady than I feel.
Sawyer nods slowly. “Yeah. I heard. You need to take a step back. This guy’s got a loose grip on reality.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I say, but as I say it, I can feel the Prozac wearing off.
Sawyer doesn’t say anything. He just gives me one last look,one of those quiet, knowing looks that feel like they carry a thousand unspoken words. Then he turns and walks out.
I don’t move for a while, standing over the patient, staring at his unconscious form. His words echo in my mind, but I push them away. People like him—high, delirious, or just plain crazy—come through this clinic every night, spouting nonsense. The kind of paranoid ramblings that don’t mean anything.
I sigh, adjusting the blankets around him, making sure he’s comfortable. A few hours ago, he was just another overdose case, another man who lost control of his life for a moment. I’ll treat him, get him stabilized, and he’ll forget about all of it by morning. Hell, I’ll probably forget, too. He’ll walk away like nothing ever happened, and next week we’ll see him again.
“Same shit, different day,” I mutter to myself as I turn away from the bed. I’ve seen too many half-lunatics stumble in here with wild-eyed stories and absurd claims to take this one seriously.
Chapter 12
The Enemy of My Enemy
Aslanov
Pain has become a constant companion, something woven into my bones, threading through my muscles like a slow-burning infection. It no longer shocks me; it simply is a part of my existence, just like the cold floor beneath me and the flickering light overhead. I don’t know how many days have passed. Time here is not measured in hours but in suffering, in the stretches of silence between interrogations, in the slow crawl of agony through my veins.
