Page 72 of Scorned Beauty
“That’s because you’re losing so much blood.” Somewhere I found the strength to power through the cramp twisting my lower abdomen into a constricting knot. I got on my knees.
“You can’t save me, so listen.” His breath rattled.
I could have saved him. For the first time I asked for someone’s help—Dom’s—and he turned me down, ridiculed me even, and shattered my heart.
I scrutinized Billy’s face. Without even looking, I knew his wound was infected. He was probably septic, not to mention his blood loss. He looked gaunt and feverish, almost like a person in a zombie movie before they turned.
“It’s okay,” he said when my face must have shown my morbid assessment of his condition. The ketamine Anton injected in me muted my emotions. Otherwise, I would be bawling my eyes out right now.
“Billy, I’m sorry,” I whispered.
You couldn’t have saved me.Billy in my head said,I have to go. I’ve had a death wish for a while and you can’t keep saving me.
“So your answer was to take yourself out?”
If you don’t get up, then I’ll have wasted my life.
“Fuck you.” And that was usually when I’d ignore the aches in my muscles and roll to my side, sit up, swing my legs over, and plant my feet on the floor to get up. I’d started going to a therapist three weeks ago, and I’d been taking medication. I had done enough clinical rotations in the psych ward to know that I was falling into depression over Billy’s death and losing the baby. The catastrophic combination of the events and the imbalance of my hormones had consigned me to this state. Still, the idea of asking for help after Dom rejected me almost prevented me from seeking therapy for my mental state. Because to reject help meant that I was strong. And I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking I was strong enough to survive this without assistance. So I forced myself to talk to someone. A stranger without preconceived notions of who I was, where I was from, and what I had done.
I stared at the ocean, convincing myself once again that I was not weak for seeking help. Grim thoughts languished in my mind. Was it a coincidence that I woke up in a pretty cottage on an isolated beach? Had the woman who paid for me to leave hoped that I would end my life on my own?
It would be so easy.
The ocean was right there.
In my drugged-out state after Grigori surrendered me to that woman, I remembered being taken to a hospital or a clinic. After that, my mind was blank. I woke up in this house with a note and specific instructions, along with bottles of pain medication and sleeping pills. I could stay in this beach house until the end of summer to recover—or join my brother.
The ocean was right there.
But after witnessing Bianca almost drowning, I shuddered to entertain that idea. Plus, I intended to check on Harriet eventually after I’d forgiven her for the secret she shared with Billy.
Phil Harding lived. I found an obscure news clip about a man falling from my apartment building and surfing the fire escape. There was an odd reference about an orange cat being taken in and adopted by a Good Samaritan. I was keeping my fingers crossed it was Ginger, and she was okay.
My van was parked in front of the cottage. I didn’t know how it got here. It needed maintenance, but I used it to go into town for groceries. It was the middle of summer in the Outer Banks. The enthusiasm and carefree life of college kids slowly rubbed off on me, giving me a shot of levity during my darkest days. Normally, I’d be resentful that they got to do their vacations in between semesters while I slaved away as a cleaner, but now I was paid to take a break. Little by little, with the sun on my skin giving me a shot of serotonin and with the meds, it took the edge off the feeling of drowning.
Fifty thousand in cold hard unmarked bills didn’t do it.
But talking to someone who didn’t judge me for my past did.
Grief and loss were irrevocably intertwined.
All I had to do was continue breathing.
In. Out.
After coffee, I walked along the beach. The sound of the waves calmed my senses and infused my system with a rush of energy that seemed to desert me each time I woke up from a restless sleep.
The vastness of the ocean made me feel small and big at the same time.
My heart rate sped up. Yesterday, I finally swam in the sea, trusting myself not to let myself drown.
Taking a dip in the ocean and breaking to the surface was cathartic. It made me feel alive.
I peeled away the sarong around my waist and dropped it on the beach and waded in.
The surf rushed around me.
I laughed. For the first time in weeks, I laughed. And that made me cry.
