Torture to Her Soul
Page 18

One more blink, and she's gone, too.
Through the heavy blackness, the faint scent of antiseptics hits me, making my nose twitch. I shiver, the flimsy blanket covering me stiff and cold, like a sheet of thin ice, as air blows down on me from somewhere up above.
Before I even open my eyes, I know exactly where I am. I've been here before. This isn't the first time I've woken up this way.
Last time I thought I was in Hell.
The hospital.
The air is icy around me, deathly silent, but I can hear chaos in the distance: beeps from machines, the rush of footsteps, whispered chatter. Forcing my eyes open, I'm not surprised that darkness greets me.
It's still nighttime.
If it's even the same day…
My vision is blurry and my head is foggy. Medicine heavily runs through my system, a grogginess that comes only from being drugged, but it does little to ease the pain.
I don't want to move.
It hurts to fucking blink.
Ignoring it, I shift position anyway, clenching my jaw when I try—and fail—to sit up in the bed. My fingertips tingle, my mouth dry, as a sudden swell of nausea rushes through me.
My head feels like it's about to explode.
Collapsing back with a resigned sigh, my hands explore what I can feel of myself. There's a big bandage on my left side, the source of most of the pain. An IV leads from my right arm to a machine, pumping something clear into my veins.
Whatever it is, I want nothing to do with it.
Grimacing, I yank the IV right out of my arm and throw it aside, ignoring the small stream of blood that runs from the tiny wound, dripping onto the floor. I yank out every wire running to me, pulling out needles, disconnecting myself from machines.
My blurry eyes scan the room in the darkness. I'm alone. I'm not surprised, but the nagging in my chest at the moment is about more than just my injuries. No matter how irrational it might be, part of me thought she'd be here, that she'd be at my side whenever I woke up.
But there's no sign of Karissa anywhere.
She found her opening, her chance to run when there's no way for you to chase her. She's free of you now.
It only takes a minute after regaining consciousness before the door to the room opens. My gaze shifts that way, instinctively looking for her, stupidly hoping it'll be her.
Instead it's a man I'm gravely familiar with.
Dr. Michael Carter.
Okay, so he's not that kind of doctor, per se.
He's a doctor of veterinary medicine.
Which means neither of us belong here.
Hospitals mean records, which mean mandatory reports, which means it's only a matter of time before the police come knocking. I go to Carter to stitch me up quickly and quietly, but this wasn't quick, nor is it going to be quiet.
The man at least has enough sense to keep the light in the room off, offering a nervous half-smile as he tentatively approaches.
I don't return the greeting.
There's nothing to smile about here.
My voice is scratchy as I ask, "Why am I here?"
He hesitates before cutting off the machines I just disconnected myself from before the alerts bring anyone else to the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed by my feet. "Didn't have a choice, Vitale. You lost quite a bit of blood."
"I don't care," I say. "You should've robbed the Red Cross before bringing me to this place."
He's quiet, contemplative, as he looks around, looking at everything except for me now. He knows he made a mistake. His gaze settles on the empty chair across the room, the one intended for visitors, but there are none of those for me.
Nobody cares that much, I think.
"I talked to the surgeon… he's a friend of mine, you know. Good man. He said the gunshot to your side was a through-and-through. Messy, but superficial. They stopped the bleeding and repaired the damage."
"So again," I say, "why the hell am I here?"
He shakes his head. "The woman who called? She was worried."
My gaze settles on the empty chair. "Couldn't have been too worried."
He lets out a strained laugh. "She was a mess when I got there. Out of her mind. The poor thing had more blood on her than you did. You were out like a light, but you were breathing fine, pulse weak but holding steady. Still though, she was trying to give you CPR, beating on you and blowing air into your lungs, doing more harm than good. Every time she pushed on your chest, you gushed more blood. Trying to keep you alive, and she damn near killed you doing it."
Despite myself, I smile at that. Sounds like Karissa—inadvertently fucking up my life, not even realizing what she's doing to me.
"So that's why I had you brought to the hospital," he says. "I know it's always a last resort, Vitale, but the condition you were in? The condition she was in? Felt like a last resort kind of situation to me."
"Did they report it?"
He sighs. "You know they had to."
I want to be furious at the man, for the obvious trouble bringing me here will cause, but I don't have it in me. I can't force myself to be pissed when my chest viciously aches and I can only seem to care about Karissa.
Her bitch of a mother shot me and I'm only worried about her. Go figure.
Shifting position, I grimace from the stab of pain as Carter stands up again.
"Just relax, okay?" He stares at the IV I threw to the floor and shakes his head. "I know I don't have any authority over you here... or anywhere... but I hope you trust my judgment. They're going to want to keep you here for 48 hours for observation."