Page 30 of Heart Sick

When he hesitates, I subtly reach down and retrieve the pills from my socks and without detection, press them into the center of seven pieces of popcorn. I offer him the container. It took ten seconds.

He doesn’t conceal his shock that I’m so efficient in hiding pills and I am too. It’s like I’ve done it before. Images propel into me, similar to the ones I had earlier of someone other than me, snorting a line off the hood of a black car.

I don’t know what the make of it is. But it looks fancy.

Old Timer accepts the container and passes it to the redhead. I wonder who else is “working” with him. But from the way he looks at me with approval, I know I’ve just been hired.

“Just wait for my cue.”

And that’s all he leaves me with.

Ihate the drugs they give me. But I also love them.

They make the pain go away.

I am a medicated zombie when I take them, but I’ve learned that they help with the guilt and memories which won’t go away. The only times I feel remotely better is when I’m with Bowie.

They took me back to my room this morning and all I could do was look over my shoulder in hopes of seeing him. But the first time I saw him was in the sunroom where it seemed he wanted to tell me something.

Noah made that impossible, however. I can’t believe he’s still standing after being beaten to a near pulp by Bowie. I know the doctors have insisted he take some time off, but he won’t, and that’s what scares me.

I can’t shake the feeling he is watching us closely, like a predator would, waiting for the perfect time to strike, which is why I don’t want to take the medication as it leaves me vulnerable.

But it also silences the screams inside my head.

I’m not sure how long I’m supposed to stay here for. I don’t feel any better. I feel worse. Maybe if I were to do what Jade suggested and talk about my feelings, it might help. But I doubt it will.

The only thing which will help is seeing Misha again.

I can feel the tears spill from the corners of my eyes, but I can’t wipe them away because my arms are strapped to my sides. I assume if I need to use the bathroom, the incontinent bed pad underneath me is where I’m to go.

This is utterly humiliating and I suddenly am so angry at Joy. How could she do this without my consent? I don’t belong in here. But isn’t that what everyone who’s in here says?

I’ve never felt more hopeless than I do right now. Not just being bound to this single bed; I mean in every aspect in my life. I realize Misha was my reason for living and now, now I have nothing. Why would I bother to fight when I have nothing to fight for?

Or do I?

“Hey, baby. I’ve got you.”

Misha?

That is what he used to say whenever I was having a bad day—I’ve got you.

But when I smell the ocean, I know it’s someone who has wormed his way into my heart as well.

I try and say his name, but all that comes out is slurred gibberish. I wonder how he got in here without getting caught. Whatever the reason, I’m happy he’s here.

I float above myself, watching as Bowie quickly unfastens the leather restraints around my arms and legs. When I’m free, the slither of moonlight coming in from my window allows me to see he has something in his mouth—a syringe.

I don’t panic when he removes the cap and lifts my gown to inject the needle into my leg. He rubs over it gently, peering at me to make sure I’m okay. I should be worried that I’m being fed more drugs, but I’m not because I know Bowie wouldn’t hurt me, and he confirms this when he very carefully lifts me into his arms.

His touch is gentle and I rest my head in the crook of his neck.

He strokes my hair and kisses my temple. “We’re going on an adventure.”

That sounds like fun.

I watch as he walks us toward the wheelchair and he sits, still holding me tightly. I’m floppy and I will my muscles to obey, but they don’t. But he won’t let me fall as he secures me against his chest and wheels us away.

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