Chapter Eighteen
Ember
The medical wing on the second floor is far more advanced than I expected.
The corridor is so bright and sharp it stings my exhausted eyes.
White walls, seamless and unblemished, stretch in clean lines under fluorescent panels that flood everything with clinical brilliance.
The air burns with antiseptic and the floors shine like polished ice—everything screams of sterility.
As I move down the hall, guided by Max, rows of glass-fronted rooms reveal themselves like exhibits at some pristine gallery: exam rooms organized to the last instrument, recovery bays with beds covered in crisp white linens, laboratories humming with soft machinery.
X-ray and MRI suites gleam behind layered glass, housing equipment so advanced it feels ridiculously out of place at a fortress for assassins.
There’s a team of doctors employed here, and several of them see me to evaluate various aspects of my health.
I have an ultrasound, a full-body MRI, and bloodwork done.
I’m quiet throughout the examinations, not attempting to pull anything, mostly because I’m invested in the state of my health.
I haven’t been to a doctor for a checkup in nearly five years—courtesy of Dagon—and I know there’s bound to be some internal damage that hasn’t been addressed.
I also very much want to know what the prognosis on my brain injury is. It happened a long time ago, but the splitting migraines could hint that something could be seriously wrong with me—or they might just be chronic pain that I need to learn to grow used to.
All in all, I’m holed up in the medical wing for the better part of three hours.
I’m already slightly hazy from what transpired earlier, and it only gets worse with time.
I’m due for my crashing stage of my sleep/wake cycle soon—keeping my eyes open is becoming increasingly difficult, and the start of a migraine is tickling my temples.
Maximus stays by my side for everything, observing the doctors with hawkish eyes as they work. At the end, the lead doctor comes in to see us and go over the results.
“A few points of concern,” he says calmly. “The chief among them being brain scans. It shows old, albeit severe, damage to areas of the hippocampus and right medial temporal lobe. So the long-term memory damage you told me about,” he flicks a glance at Max, “is consistent with what I’m seeing.”
Max exhales a long breath. Takes a seat beside me on the examination table. I watch him from the corner of my eye; he looks broken at the doctor’s news, his face crumpled, eyes dejected. We must’ve been close whenever we knew each other.
“Is there any way to get the memories back?” Max asks.
“It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but it’s improbable at the moment,” the doctor says. “Her brain scans show a severe deficiency in the prefrontal cortex—that part of her brain is shrinking. From what I can see, it’s shrinking rapidly.”
“The fuck?” Max sounds panicked. I’d be touched over his concern of me if I gave a shit. “Why? Is it because of the injury?”
The doc shakes his head. “No, this appears to be stress-induced. Severe, repeated trauma leads to PTSD, which leads to parts of the brain that regulate emotions—such as the prefrontal cortex—to shut down and shrink.”
“Can it be fixed?” Max asks, his tone somewhat shrill.
I examine my nails. If parts of my brain shrinking is what keeps me sharp, I have no problem with that.
Besides, emotions are overrated, and they get messy.
I prefer things to be neat and to the point.
If I still had a full range of emotions, I don’t think I’d be able to get out of bed in the mornings.
“It can be repaired, yes, through psychotherapy and, possibly, a regiment of medications. There is no cure to PTSD, but a complete resolution of symptoms and subsequent improvements in the brain are well-documented.” The doctor turns to me. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, have you decided to stop speaking about me as if I’m not in the fucking room?” I bare my teeth at him in a vicious smile. “Please, proceed.”
The doctor’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, looking slightly unnerved. “Er…” he looks down at a chart in his hands. Swallows again, and gives me a jaded glance. “There’s some trauma to the tissues on your cranium. Do you experience migraines?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Weekly. They’re crippling, and they’re usually what finally get me to sleep.” The one that’s been flirting with me is starting to intensify, followed by faint pulses of nausea. That means I have about an hour, maybe less, before I crash.
“You have trouble sleeping?”
“Yes,” Max answers for me.
My jaw tightens, and I slide him a warning look. “You consider yourself an expert on my health?”
He doesn’t throw me a cheery grin. He’s far more serious than I’m used to right now, features taut, brows set in a frown. “Expert? Not yet, but I’m fucking about to be.”
“Could you please describe your troubles sleeping for me?” The doc asks.
“She stays awake three or four days, then crashes and sleeps for a day,” Max pipes up unhelpfully.
Note to self: stop telling him things. He obviously doesn’t know how to keep his fucking mouth shut, or give me the barest decency of answering questions regarding myself.
“I see.” The doctor makes a note. “How long has this cycle been consistent?”
When Max hesitates, I smile again. “Since I have the subject matter expert right next to me, I’ll let him answer.” I’m growing unreasonably irritated; another sign that I’m about to crash. Usually, I know how to hold my temper in check. Just not when I’m literally running on fumes.
The doc looks at Max. Max’s jaw clenches, and he looks at me. I shrug. “What? No response?” I push out my bottom lip in a pout. “How unfortunate.”
“Answer the fucking question,” Max growls.
I tap my lips with my index finger. “Hmmm. Sadly, I seem to have forgotten.” Another shrug. “You know, memory problems and all.”
A vicious, pounding sensation shoots through my skull. I nearly double over and heave, but somehow, I manage to hold myself in check and avoid any embarrassment. It’s a struggle to hide a wince. I can already tell that this crash is going to be nasty.
“Ember,” Max snaps.
“Maximus,” I respond flatly. “If you act like I’m not in a room and have no agency, I will react accordingly.”
He scoffs with irritation. “Stop being a fucking child, and—”
Sound cuts out. Black spots appear in my vision, and I feel my upper body sway.
An unbearable, horrific pain shoots through my head, as though somebody’s stuck a knife into the left side of my skull and is twisting it, trying to dig out my brain piece by piece.
Kind of like the ancient Egyptians scooping someone’s grey matter out through their nose.
I hunch over and heave bile onto the doctor’s shoes. Then, I pass out.
Ember: 14, Max: 18.
It’s the worst day in distant memory. Not because I know my dad is out, getting drunk and gambling—that’s become the norm.
It’s the worst day I can remember because my closest friend, favorite person, and biggest crush is leaving.
I’ve known this day was coming for months.
I knew it five months ago, when Max’s friends started hosting insane senior parties.
I knew it on the last day of my first year of high school, when I watched him walk across the stage, accept a diploma, and, somehow, manage to find me in the sea of faces and wink.
I knew it was coming three months ago, when Max ended up hosting a huge end-of-year party for all of his friends. I never remember feeling so alone. He invited me to join—he always makes a point of inviting me—but my dad prohibited me from going.
Dad was also out getting drunk that night, like he is tonight, so I didn’t listen. I managed to sneak into the big, fancy home Max lives in… only to find him with his tongue shoved so far down a girl’s throat, I’m amazed she didn’t vomit.
It hurt to see that; by then, I’d already developed a major crush on him, even though I’m sure he doesn’t see me as anything other than a nuisance. A little kid, the groundkeeper’s daughter, who happened to teach him how to read—and who he helps with math and science in return.
Today hurts much more than any thought of him leaving or seeing him kiss another girl.
Maximus has been my constant since I moved here—to a strange place with annoyingly rich peers. Every wealthy person I’ve met has treated me like I’m the dirt on their shoe… up until Max intervened. He’s protected me relentlessly.
I sit on the rickety porch’s sofa, a copy of The Three Musketeers clutched in my hands. My eyes sting with tears, because I know Max’s ride will be here soon, and then he’ll be gone.
He won’t join me for late nights on this porch anymore. Won’t sit with me as I wait to see if my dad will be drunk enough to need help getting into the house.
He won’t help me with my homework, and I won’t help him with his.
There will just be… nothing. The thought is devastating beyond belief.
I run the chewed edge of my thumbnail over the cover.
I have mountains of homework waiting to be done—my high school has a big workload—but I can’t concentrate on anything other than my impending loss.
Max is leaving any moment now. I said goodbye to him last night, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
I have this stupid fantasy of him taking me with him—of him being the Prince Charming that pulls me away from my father’s toxic habits and into a healthier, brighter world.
But fantasies are just that; fantasies. Even if he weren’t way older than me and way out of my league, I’m not sure anything would change. We come from different worlds.
“Flame!”