Page 18 of Corpse Roads

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he assures me. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. I’ll be discharging you into protective custody, and the right people are working on your case. They will get you answers.”

Strands of dark-blonde hair cover his eyes as he writes some more notes. I stare down at my fingers, peeking out through the thick plaster encasing my broken arm.

They don’t look like my fingers. This doesn’t look like my body. Everything about this is wrong. Any moment now, I’ll startle awake, trapped in the familiar imprisonment of my cage.

“Doctor?”

His head snaps up. “Yes, Harlow?”

“I d-don’t… uh, feel real. Is that normal?”

Brows furrowing, he places his pen down. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Raising my hand, I touch the tender skin of my face. I caught a glimpse earlier when a different nurse gave me a sponge bath. There are two vertical stripes staining my skin in mottled shades of purple and green.

The marks perfectly match the bars that Mrs Michaels smashed me into on my last night. Her personal brand of evil has left an indelible mark on me, and in a twisted way, I’m relieved. I have proof.

“How old do you think I am?” I ask instead.

Doctor David sighs at my obvious topic change. “Early twenties. May I ask when you got your first period?”

My mouth falls open. I know what that word means. Adelaide usually haunts my bad dreams, more than the others do. Her story is the most horrifying of all.

The other girls bled between their legs every now and then. I learned about periods from them. But Adelaide never did. Her belly was swollen when she arrived, begging for mercy.

Not for her own life—but for her baby’s. Pastor Michaels broke her nose and called her a slut. He was determined to save the child’s unborn soul. In his mind, she didn’t deserve to be a mother because she survived by selling her body.

Adelaide died in excruciating pain.

I can still hear her screeching wails.

“I’ve n-n-nev…” I stammer. “Never… h-had it.”

Doctor David’s jaw hardens. I look away as anger flashes in his eyes. I’m not worthy of their care and attention, not after what I’ve done to get here. They should’ve let me die instead.

“Lunch time,” he declares suddenly. “I’ll send the nurse in with something suitable. Time to get better, eh?”

Patting my hand, he disappears with his note-clustered paperwork. I’m left staring up at the ceiling, blinking away tears.

The nurse bustles in shortly after, disconnecting the empty bag of medication flowing through the port in my arm.

“I’ll get your protein shake,” she offers, leaving the IV line unhooked. “How about some jelly, hmm? It’ll be nice and light on your stomach.”

“Okay… thank you.”

Left alone again, I push back the bedcovers and attempt to move my legs. Every muscle screams in protest, and it takes several minutes to place my bandaged feet on the floor.

I blink away the rush of dizziness and manoeuvre myself up. The pain isn’t so bad; I feel weak more than anything. How I made it here, I can’t even begin to imagine.

I’ve heard the nurses gossiping outside my room, trading theories. If I ran, it must’ve been for miles. Beaten, broken and starved. The level of desperation that takes is unthinkable.

Limping over to the window, I take in the hospital grounds. Loud vehicles come and go beneath me, flashing with blue lights. I’m not sure where we are. London sounds vaguely familiar.

“Look who’s up!”

The nurse walks back in, placing a plastic tray on the table over my bed. I quickly take her outstretched hand before my legs fold. She tucks me back into bed and bustles away.

The tray in front of me holds a cup of gloopy, sludge-like liquid. One sniff and nausea rushes over me. Instead, I pick up the clear pot filled with wiggling red stuff.

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