Chapter 3
Dorian
I spend more time in Katherine’s hospital room than anyone else, and considering how I feel about her, that fact is very unfortunate for her.
Ms. Starling—or Dana, as she prefers to be called—pops in daily, stopping in at least twice to check on her daughter. She’s thankful I’m here to keep an eye on her, as she puts it, while she’s chained to her work. I don’t like the sentiment, but on the outside, it appears I’m a faithful victim, saved by the divine angel, Katherine Starling. Or Kittie, as Dana continues to call her.
“Kittie,” I softly say her name. I’ve said it multiple times during my visits to her hospital room, though she can’t hear me, nor does she respond. I feel its weight on my tongue; what a strange little name it is.
It makes me sick to think of myself as saved , but I say nothing to Dana of the contrary. I can’t precisely express to her how much I despise her daughter. I can’t let on that the only reason I’ve remained at her side for the last two weeks has been a twisted desire to hurt and devastate her.
By the beginning of week three, her doctors have determined that her brain has healed enough to wean her off the general anesthesia.
Occasionally, Katherine stirs but doesn’t fully wake. The intubation tube has been removed, and after her latest MRI, she’s been cleared for any neurological damage. She’s since spent the last two days in and out of it, mostly sleeping but never fully coming around.
When she fully wakes up, I’ll have the chance to tear her down for ruining my death. For taking a choice from me. I intend to bring her as low as she’s brought me.
But what am I now? Obsessive, one-track-minded, spinning my wheels. I’ll ensure she suffers in kind.
The angel on my shoulder weeps at my cruelty, but I put it and the nauseous feeling aside. I’ve already invested sixteen days into this petty revenge plot, and I’ll see it through to the end.
I ready myself for another quiet evening in the hospital room. The scenery only slightly changed now that Katherine has been moved out of the ICU. The second bed is empty in her new room, so it’s much quieter than before, with less panicked people rushing in every direction.
It’s Saturday now. I’ve used up a significant chunk of my personal leave at Katherine’s bedside. Perhaps my snap judgement on her lack of visitors came a little quick, considering how pathetic my diligence makes me appear. Regardless, I settle in for what I assume will be another long day of waiting.
Dana’s arrival slices through the relative quiet. She strolls across the room, throwing a grocery bag full of folded clothes into the chair behind me. The rustling of the bag causes Katherine to stir again, but she doesn’t wake.
When she settles back into her sleep, I lift my eyes from the open book in my lap.
Dana pumps sanitizer from the wall dispenser and rubs her hands together. She’s in a bright yellow blouse and khakis, her short hair pinned back with a claw clip.
“Any minute now, huh?”
The volume of her voice is a touch too loud for my taste, considering there are sleeping parties in the room. I watch Katherine’s breathing, waiting for it to wake her, but as her chest rises and falls evenly, I return my attention to her mother.
The doctor noted that her pupil movement and reaction to physical sensations is a good indication that she’ll make a full recovery, other head-trauma-related issues notwithstanding.
Katherine had been lucky. The car had braked hard enough that the impact had broken a few ribs and severely bruised the right side of her body. What had been the most devastating injury to her was the impact of her head against the car and then against the pavement. Miraculously, she isn’t brain-dead.
When I don’t answer—not that most of Dana’s questions require one—she returns to the bag and digs out a neon yellow shirt. The crinkling of the plastic zaps me with a jolt of annoyance.
“I brought some clothes for her to change into when we leave. I can’t wait for this whole thing to be over,” she explains, laying it out across the back of the chair and smoothing the wrinkles. “What do you think of this color?”
I dare to survey the garment, imagining how it would clash with the red tones of her hair. Blue would be better—
By God, what the hell am I thinking?
I force my eyes back to my book and flip the page. “I’m not sure she’ll be released today, even if she wakes up.”
“Oh, I’m just trying to be optimistic,” she chirps. The edge of her strained laugh drags the straight line of my mouth into a frown. “I didn’t realize how much I depend on her until now. How sad is that? I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t attached.”
Dana’s words summon images of my mother, and I desperately scramble for something to say, anything to kill the conversation. “You’re doing your best, I’m sure.”
The answer seems to soothe her. She cups her elbows, gnawing her lower lip as she stares over Katherine’s sleeping form.
Just as I’m tempted to ask her what’s wrong and add to the narrative that I care, she uncaps her thoughts in another question. “Did anyone else come by today?”
“No.”
And honestly, what does that say about Katherine? Surely, a good person would have more visitors than their own mother.
Dana breathes a sigh and remains on her feet. “When she was a little girl, she used to have so many friends.Then my husband and I went through a nasty divorce, and she just clammed up.”
Despite my better judgment, this information prompts me to shut my book with a thump “Is there a reason why her father isn’t here? Did he pass away?”
Blowing air through her lips, she waves a hand at me. “I know I’m going to Hell for it, but I think the world would be better off if he had.”
I weigh her words for only a second. I catch a flicker of my own father’s memory, and I’m hit with a pang of sympathy.
“He’s still alive and kicking somewhere,” she continues, her eyes never leaving her daughter. “We shared custody for a while, but he eventually stopped picking her up altogether. I thought about going after him for child support or something, but she seemed happier with him gone, in a way. She never really recovered, though.”
“When was that?” I ask, hating myself for the question and the quiet, considerate tone I ask it with.
“Oh, I don’t know, I think she was maybe ten or so. I try to block those years out,” she confesses before her face softens, and I find myself under a pair of tender eyes that I want to crawl away from. “I’m just so glad you’ve been around. Having someone looking out for her means so much to me.”
I should win a medal for my ability to refrain from grimacing.
Luckily, she doesn’t expect an answer or bottomless epithets about her daughter’s selflessness in saving me or some equally absurd, meaningless notion. Instead, she heads toward the door.
“I’m going to grab something from the cafeteria,” she says, lifting her arms over her head, locking her fingers, and stretching them. “I haven’t gotten to eat since this morning. Did you want anything?”
“No, thank you,” I reply, settling back into my chair and opening my book as she leaves.
Hardly ten minutes pass in the still of the room before Katherine draws a deep breath. I chalk it up to more restless sleep, but her shifting and breathing become too irregular. I shut my book and place it on a nearby end table.
I had more than two weeks to consider how I’d hurt her. I won’t raise my voice, of course, but I won’t let her go unscathed, either. I can’t bear the thought of what I’m sure will be a self-righteous smile. She’ll be a martyr with a nose for money.
I play out our potential conversations in my head, what I think she’ll say or do. All of this is my fault. She’ll expect or want something. People always want something. No one does anything for free, especially at such a cost. But she’ll get nothing from me.
A noise leaves her, and I realize I never considered what her voice sounds like. Had I heard her speak before? Everything dealing with the day of the accident is a blur.
Her head is tilted in my direction, the mostly uninjured part of her face against the pillow. When her eyes open slowly, they’re facing me.
Evening light from the window ignites her eyes. They’re a glimmering afternoon sky blue.
I pull my chair closer to her, the aged wooden legs groaning against the scuffed linoleum. Cognition flashes on her face. This is my moment, and I brace myself for what she’ll become in front of me.
“What’s going on?” she mumbles, disoriented.
There’s no reason for her to recognize me, at least not immediately, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe I would have been kinder if she was a friend, a family member, hell, or even a stranger on the street who hadn’t done anything.
Katherine ruined everything. She took my certainty and my escape. Before I stepped onto the road, I’d been sure. Now, looking into her face, I’ve never been further from it.
“You pushed me out of the way,” I inform her, waiting as the realization creeps onto her features. There’s no horror nor fear, but her eyes widen as she looks at me, remembering. “You’re lying in a hospital bed. You may have lost your memories. You may never walk again, never feed yourself. But no matter what becomes of you, you will never get a dime from me.”
I’m being cruel. My voice comes out hard and unforgiving. Right now, I want to hurt this stranger who denied me the one shred of control I had.
Katherine only stares at me, wide-eyed, processing my words. I wait for the tears and the confusion, but the shock seems just as fitting. I anticipate questions about the incident, an argument about how she deserves compensation…
“Are you okay?”
I frown. Katherine’s small, silvery voice is so calm I wonder if she’s in shock or denial.
My brow furrows as I reply, “I’m fine.”
After I speak, she lets out a heavy sigh. She drops her head against the pillow, and her eyes glisten with tears.
Katherine…smiles at me. “Thank God.”
“Thank—” Though I try, I can’t repeat her words. Eventually, confusion surges through me. The hatred wanes. “They drilled a hole into your head. You could have long-standing issues for the rest of your life. That’s nothing to be thankful for.”
Katherine shakes her head, sending the fresh tears down her scab-covered face. “You’re alive ,” she insists, “that’s what’s important.”
“I—” The words and their intentions vanish. I’d been ready to be angry. I’d prepared barbs and words to make her cry, but not like this. My bitterness melts to frustration, and I double down. “I’m not going to give you anything.”
“I don’t want anything,” she whispers. Before I can respond, she reaches out and touches my hand on the edge of the mattress. I jolt at the coldness of her skin. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt? I ran into you pretty hard.”
“I’m fine.” The repeated words are difficult to force out.
“No, you’re not.” It’s as if the monitors around her, the scabbing of her arms, the broken ribs, the IV in her hand, none of it exists. “You walked into the road for a reason. That means you’re not okay.”
I’m silent, unsure of what expression I’m giving her.
“You don’t have to talk to me about it, but you should probably talk to someone . Nobody should have to suffer to the point of thinking that’s their only option.”
“No,” I try to argue. My throat tightens. I expected a thousand outcomes, but the one where she comforts me as if she knows me hadn’t been one of them.
Katherine doesn’t let me continue. “If you do want to talk, I’m all ears.” She smiles again and laughs softly, but the movement makes her wince. She rests a hand against her side as if to ease the pain. “I’m definitely not going anywhere.”
When I don’t reply, she says, “I’m Kittie, by the way.”
“I know.”
“Oh yeah?” The syllables are strained, and her smile begins to wobble.
The wheels in my brain slowly turn. To my horror, as the seconds tick by, I dig around for that hatred deep in my chest. I try to clutch at the feeling, but it’s ash. I have nothing but a hollowness where the hate should be.
“I’m guessing you have a name,” she prompts.
“Dorian Ward.”
“Well, Dorian Ward, can you call my mom, possibly? If not, maybe you could get a nurse to do it? She’ll probably be mad—”
“She’s already here.” It dawns on me that Katherine isn’t aware of how much time has passed. I contemplate telling her; for a moment, I consider how devastating the information will be and suddenly feel sick. At first, I would have delighted in startling her, but now…
“Oh.” Her thin brow wrinkles. She looks around the hospital room, and reality settles in for her. Her voice thins. “Where is she?”
With this, I stand. My voice is almost robotic. “I’ll go get her.”
“Okay,” she says, sucking in a shaky breath. “I’ll be here.”
I trudge out of the hospital room, my feet moving with almost no input. Somehow, all the air vanishes from the hallway as some strange new sensation unfurls in the pit of my stomach.
Following the signs to the cafeteria, I find Dana, even when my surroundings become a blur.
Ms. Starling turns around where she is in line for the cashier, granola bar in hand. It doesn’t occur to me that I’m standing in front of her, unspeaking, for a little too long.
“Dorian?” she calls, trying to snap me out of my strange trance.
“It’s Katherine,” I mutter. It’s a piece of information that should be meaningless; yet, as I speak, a strange sound of relief emerges. The voice is mine, but it sounds brittle. “She’s awake.”