Page 11 of Retribution

“What do you want?” She groans, not pleased with my contact attempt.

“It’s Allie,”

Her tone shifts entirely.

“What about Allie?” The arrogance in her voice is overbearing.

“She’s been in an accident, she’s in the hospital. I need you to be here for Willow, so I can be there for her.”

Her breath hitches, “What I don’t under–”

“There is no time for questions, Britney. You need to get over here, now.” My voice is cold and unnerving.

I hear shuffling in the background, “Yeah absolutely, of course. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Ending the phone call, I take in the sudden temperature drop. The lack of warmth in the air adds to the building chill in my bones.

***

Britney arrives within record time, no belongings, just herself.

“Thank you.” I whisk past her, not looking for any sort of conversation.

Putting my car into ignition, I screech out of the driveway. Every red light I surpass, doesn’t register within my eyesight. All I can see is Allie. A broken shell of a woman that is suffering inhumanely, because of matters that are beyond her control.

Leaving the car outside of the emergency department, barely remembering to shut the door, I sprint inside of the foreboding building, my heart pounding.

Stumbling upon the reception desk, I’m greeted by a woman in her sixties, not sensing my matter of urgency.

“Allie Breckenridge, where is she?” I breathe.

“Date of birth, Sir?” She murmurs, the lack of interest in my words has me spiraling. I gawk at her, not because of her ignorance, but because I don’t remember. Surely, this is because I’m in shock?

“April… 5th, 1993.” I say.

The tapping of the keyboard thrums to the beat of my heart.

“Sorry there is no one–”

“April 3rd 1993. Run it again.”

Her face screws slightly, judging me for my lack of knowledge.

“Yes, we have an Allie Breckenridge. She’s currently up in the neurology department, if you head up the elevator–”

“I know where it is.” I snap, bolting off into the hospital, my heart beating out of my chest.

It clouds my ability to hear as if it were a typhoon jet, soaring the skies.

I jam the button of the elevator continuously until I’m comforted by the ‘ding’ of it arriving. I walk inside, persistently pressing floor six until the doors finally close.

The elevator stopped at every level on the way up, dragging out the incessant need to find out what’s going on.

It occurs to me that most visitors in a hospital are here for someone they love. Whether they are in a tragic accident, suffer from a horrific disease, or despicable circumstances. We are all in the same boat. Each one of us, potentially seeing someone we love for the last time.

My stomach drops as the doors open to reveal the sign reading ‘Floor 6 – Neurology’.

Rushing to the neurology department reception, I repeat the same information as I did downstairs. They inform me Allie has been in surgery for four hours already, she has suffered significant head trauma. Then, spouts the usual, ‘When we have any new information, we will let you know’.

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