Chapter Twenty-Three
Hurt and Confused
Roisin
I’d never been so drunk, nor had anyone ever taken me to a hospital so bright. I moaned and closed my eyes, unable to do more to convey my discomfort. I couldn’t articulate what I wanted, just my discontent.
The hand with the pistol tattoo was my lifeline. I clung to it as the world spun and cleared again.
I was pretty sure I was laying still, but it felt like I was turning, ever so slowly. My stomach, on the other hand, was flipping and flopping like I was on a damned roller coaster.
“I’m gonna be–” was all I could manage, before my throat watered and the heaving began.
I was vaguely aware of Ziggy, and others, which left me reeling from confusion to embarrassment and back again. When it settled a little, I rested my head back, my attention anchored on the rail of the bed where I was gripping it.
My knuckles were so white.
I held it as tightly as I could and tried to sit up. The pressure in my head compounded and it began to throb in time with my heartbeat.
“You can have five minutes with her until my imaging people arrive. This cannot be delayed.” Someone important sounded like they were conceding.
“Ro,” Ziggy’s voice was so soft and full of concern.
His fingers danced as gentle as butterfly wings over my hairline. I followed the sound of his voice through my fog and focused on his face.
“Baby, tell them who did this to you,” he quietly encouraged me.
Everything hurt, but the worst of it was my face. I was nauseated and unable to see that well. I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I wished I had a mirror and something for the pain.
“Baby, talk to us. Who did this?” Ziggy implored.
I wanted to help him. I didn’t like the sound of pain in his voice, and whatever else that was. It was pitiful, I knew that much, even if I could barely see him. I raked my mind backwards and forwards. I was at school, but he knew that. He picked me up. I was making dinner.
“The oven is on,” I managed.
Each word stung my throat, my mouth was so dry it made sticky sounds when I tried to swallow as my tongue clung to the roof of my mouth.
“Thirsty. So thirsty.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Nash. We cannot give you anything by mouth right now, not until after the imaging,” a female voice apologetically came from the foot of my bed.
“What?” Ziggy, blurted out.
I grimaced as I fought against my dry palate to explain, “Th-the oven. I was cooking dinner. I found the fine plates even. I put the salad in the icebox.”
That much was clear enough but closing that icebox. It was like lights out.
“I don’t know what happened after that,” I almost frowned, but the movement of my brows brought a new level of pain that left me groaning all over again.
Ziggy stroked my forehead, pressing a kiss above the area that burned. When he lifted, he paused before asking, “Baby, who were you running from?”
“Hm?” I stared up at him, confused by the question.
“When you ran to me.” Ziggy stared down at me expectantly.
“Didn’t you just get here?” I tried to look for another face, to see if he was kidding, but moving my gaze made it go blurry.
“She is likely concussed, as I’ve said. Here are my imaging people. I’m sorry, officers, Mr. Nash, further questioning will have to wait.”
“If you’ll follow me,” the female voice suggested, and Ziggy’s lips pressed against my head.
“No,” I protested, sensing he was about to leave.
Something sounded beneath me, and his hand abandoned mine as the bed began to roll, and so did my stomach.