Chapter 6 Arabelle
Arabelle
The strong, distinct odor of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and bleach immediately filters into my nostrils.
Slowly, I peel my eyes open and squint as the overhead fluorescent light blinds me, while the incessant beeping sounds and constant humming grate on my nerves.
I’ve never in my entire life had a headache this bad.
“Shit,” I groan, grasping my head. “Shut it off.”
“Thank God. Arabelle.”
I face the familiar voice, although I don’t understand his concern. My brows dip in confusion. “Dale…”
“You’re all right.” He tightly grips my hand like if he lets go of it, I will disappear. “You scared the shit out of me, sweetheart.”
Along with his appearance, the relief in his voice is confusing for me. What the hell happened?
“Dale, what are you doing here?”
The last thing I remember, I was at the bar with Pierre having a few drinks. Then, I started feeling queasy and dizzy after having a couple glasses of wine. Then my memory fades to black. I remember absolutely nothing.
“Where am I?” I ask. “Where’s Pierre?”
“You’re in the hospital in Chicago, honey.”
My eyes widen as I look around the room. The room is filled with the smell of antiseptic, bright lights overhead, and the sterile feeling of medical equipment surrounding the bed where I lay and the chair where Dale sits.
“That explains the smell and all the noise. What am I doing here?”
“Someone dropped you off at the emergency room because they believed someone drugged you. Thank God whoever it was found you.”
“Drugged?”
Even more confusion swirls inside me.
“Yes. They believed you were roofied. Sweetheart, what the hell happened? Who’s Pierre?”
I groan when I try to sit up in the bed. The room spins as unbearable pain pounds against my skull. “Ow!” I grasp my head.
Immediately, Dale jumps from the chair and adjusts the pillows behind my head to make me more comfortable and to help me sit up straighter.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, but you need to slow down. Let me help you. They said you may experience some pain and severe headaches. It’s the effects of the drugs.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“I don’t know. I’m not family, so they wouldn’t give me any information other than you were stable.”
“I went on a date.” I rub my temples, trying to help relieve the excruciating pain pounding in my head. “We were at the bar not too far from the hotel. I can’t remember the name. But, after that, I don’t remember anything.”
“And this was with someone named Pierre?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Do you remember his last name?”
“I don’t. Dale, I don’t even know if I asked for his last name. Is he the one who brought me to the hospital?”
He sighs. “They don’t know, but whoever it was knows who I am. They gave the hospital my contact information so they could get in touch with me. They also hid their face from the hospital’s security cameras.”
That causes even more confusion. There’s no way Pierre would know anything about Dale. So, if it wasn’t him, then who was it?
“Pierre works at the hotel I was staying at. So, there’s no way he would know who you are. I’ve only been there a week and never mentioned you. How would he know any of that?”
A look of bewilderment blankets his face, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“If Pierre wasn’t the one who brought me to the hospital, it must mean he’s the one who drugged me, right? I have no recollection of what happened, so I can’t say for sure it was him, but who else could it be? He’s the only person I’ve been anywhere with since I’ve been here.”
Before we can continue our conversation, there’s a knock on the door, and a doctor walks in.
“Ms. Williamson, I’m Dr. Morgan,” she says as soon as she enters the room. She walks toward the machines and jots down notes on a clipboard before turning her attention to me. “I’m the attending physician on call. How are you feeling?”
“Hello, Doctor. I’ve got a massive headache, but other than that, I guess I’m doing okay.”
“The headaches are to be expected. That’s the effects of the drugs in your body, but we are flushing your system. I’m going to ask you some questions about what happened.”
I release a heavy breath. “There isn’t much I can tell you, doctor. All I remember is having a couple glasses of wine with my date. Anything after that is blank.”
“Well, you had Rohypnol, what’s better known as the date rape drug, in your system. Also, with the defensive wounds on your hands and arms, I would like to perform a rape kit to rule out sexual assault. The police will also like whatever evidence we can collect for your case.”
I stare at the scratches and cuts on my hands and arms that I hadn’t even noticed, and my eyes fill with tears as reality hits me square in the stomach.
Someone tried to rape me.
Dale grabs my hand, giving it a gentle but firm squeeze. “It’s going to be all right, sweetheart.”
No matter the conviction in Dale’s voice, I don’t know where my life goes from here.
How can I trust anyone after something like this?
I can’t believe that I’m in this position.
All I wanted to do was go out with a cute guy, have a little fun before my reality took back over.
Now, I’m in the hospital and can’t remember what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.
All I want to do is wake up from this nightmare.
It took me a couple of hours to get Dale to leave once we got back to New York. Even though I understand why he wants to hang around to make sure I’m safe, I just want to be alone. I need time to process what’s happened to me.
The cops said they will be in touch with me once the results are back from the examination.
However, the examiner confirmed that I wasn’t raped, so they are treating the case as an attempted sexual assault.
I felt an overwhelming sense of relief that I struggled to put into words when I found out I hadn’t been violated.
All I could do was let the tears freely fall.
They meticulously inspected every inch of my body, poking, prodding, swabbing, and taking photographs where they suspected evidence might be found.
They even scraped under my nails just in case I had been able to scratch my attacker.
It was the most invasive exam I’ve ever experienced.
The most humiliating thing I’ve ever been through.
I’m so grateful to be home. Finally, after hours of questioning and going over the same details and finally getting nowhere other than I was last with Pierre, they allowed me to return to New York.
Hopefully, through their investigation, they will find out who drugged me and find the person who brought me to the emergency room.
I’d at least like to thank that person for saving me.
Wrapped in a cozy blanket on my couch, I stare blankly at the flickering images on the television screen.
I haven’t been able to focus on anything other than trying to recall details of what happened to me, but my mind is completely blank.
I can still feel the effects of the drug the person gave me lingering in my system, which is probably still clouding my memory.
Did Pierre do this to me? The cops haven’t been able to find him.
The sound of my cell phone ringing causes me to groan in annoyance.
I grab it from the coffee table and let out a sigh when I see the caller ID.
Talking to my father is the last thing I want to do right now, especially considering the circumstances.
So, I silence it. If he’s calling, he wants something, and I’m not in the right frame mentally to deal with any of his bullshit.
After everything that has happened, all I want to do is sleep and forget the last few days.
“I need to sleep.”
Before I can close my eyes and finally relax, a sharp knock on the door makes me sigh in frustration. I just want to be left alone.
I rise from the couch, my limbs heavy and stiff, and shuffle toward the front door. It has to be Dale.
As I look through the peephole, I expect to see Dale’s handsome face, but no one’s there.
As I slowly open the door, my frown deepens when I spot the single rose and black envelope with gold script. Instead of the usual giddiness apprehension fills me.
I pick up the rose from in front of my door, feeling its delicate petals in my hand, then the envelope, and close the door. Leaning against the door, I close my eyes and breathe in the unique sweet, floral scent of the rose.
I remove the card from inside the envelope and brush my fingers across the words printed in elegant gold script as I read.
Nothing compares to the beauty you possess and the grace you present to the world. But, most of all, the strength you carry is beyond anything imaginable. You are a survivor. Always remember that.
“I’m a survivor,” I mumble to myself. “Does this person know what happened to me? Did they do this to me?”