Page 47 of Heart Sick

“We’ve got to go!” Old Timer repeats, but he can wait.

“You want me to go?” I ask Bowie, clutching his cheeks, and when he blinks once, a sob gets caught in my throat.

Even stuck in a medicated nightmare, he’s trying to save me. And this is the only way I can save him.

Kissing him lightly on his icy lips, I ignore the agony in my heart and follow Old Timer out the door. But when he attempts to leave, I grab his arm and shake my head.

“No fucking way,” I state, as this isn’t negotiable. “I’m not leaving until I see who did this to him.”

“Why?” Old Timer questions, his fear cementing my need to stay.

“Because I want to know who needs to pay for what they did to him. If you’re too chickenshit, go. But I’m staying.”

I quickly hide in the room across from the bathroom and keep to the shadows to remain unseen. I’m surprised when Old Timer follows. The footsteps get louder and louder, and I prepare myself for anything.

But who I see leaves me confused.

A beautiful blonde woman appears, wheeling a chair, her spotless white doctor’s coat hinting who she is. But I’ve never seen her before.

She enters the bathroom and stops beside the bathtub. She exhales when she peers down at Bowie. I don’t know what it is about her, but I instantly don’t like her. Even though she wears a doctor’s uniform, I don’t think she’s here to help.

“I’m sorry, but you gave me no choice,” she scolds, arms folded. “I can’t show special preference because of who you are.”

What does that mean? Justwhois he, then?

“You can’t behave that way,” she continues, talking to him like a child. “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to make you better so you can play music again. I know that if you can do that again, everything will be all right.

“We’llbe all right again. I love you, Jonathan. Please come back to me.” She produces a key from her pocket.

My stomach drops, and I want to be sick. But I watch as she kneels by the bathtub and presses her lips to Bowie’s…or rather, Jonathan’s.

She kisses him passionately even though he is non-responsive. But she doesn’t seem to mind if the moans coming from her are anything to go by. She unlocks his restraints, and when I hear the water sloshing, I charge forward, ready to rip off her hand.

Old Timer, however, snares the back of my gown. “No,” he mouths, eyes wide.

But I can’t just sit here while this doctor gives a comatose Bowie a hand job. It’s so unethical and, not to mention, a total violation. This is wrong—on all accounts.

But then I remember her calling him Jonathan and how if he was responsive, the hand job would probably be welcomed. I suddenly feel so stupid. What was I expecting? To ride off into the sunset happily and cured of the voices?

That only happens in cheesy movies and clichéd romance novels.

This is real life and I really need to accept that Bowie is romantically involved with this doctor who looks like an angel.

The sloshing ceases and I release the pent-up breath I was holding.

“It’s okay,” she says, wiping her wet hand on her jacket. “Next time when you’re feeling better.”

She unfastens all the restraints and uses some machine to help lift a sopping-wet Bowie from the bathtub. He’s suspended in midair, like some lifeless doll. She lowers him into a wheelchair and removes her jacket to cover him.

She hums under her breath as she escorts him from the room while I question what the hell I just saw.

One Week Later

Isit, staring vacantly at a robin perched in a tree. It looks so happy. So carefree. And why wouldn’t it be? It gets to fly freely, deciding its own fate.

How envious I am of that bastard. I want what he has, something that I once took for granted. Now, I can’t even go to the bathroom alone.

The bars across the window in front of me is just another reminder of where I am—in prison. Or, a better description…I’m in hell.

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