3. Finleigh
Finleigh
T hese two don’t say much. Even when I ask questions, their answers are clipped and to the point. It feels weird that I’d be attracted to that, but I wouldn’t know either way because I don’t even know my own name.
The hospital has been calling me Jane Doe, ma’am, sweetheart, or the worst yet… honey . I don’t want cute nicknames; I want my name, and these intimidating men, clad in leather biker vests, more black ink than is visible, and scowls etched on their faces, claim to know who I am.
“Are we going to share names here, or is this a guessing game?” I finally say, the exhaustion and fear, making me cranky.
I don’t want to be stuck in the hospital, but until now, no one has laid claim to me.
I’ve tried not to focus on that too much because when I do, it’s depressing.
The realization of meaning nothing to no one is a revelation I can live without.
“Your name is Finleigh. I’m Axl; he’s Brute.” There’s an amused twist to Axl’s lips that seems endearing.
Glancing between the two of them, I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Those are your real names?”
Brute grunts like he’s been kicked, and I think it’s what serves as a laugh for the hulky man. “Obviously not. That’s something to worry about another day.”
Not when you don’t know anything, it isn’t. I keep that to myself, however, because truthfully, he scares me.
“Finleigh.” I repeat the name Axl told me. “Finleigh, what?” I mean, I must have a surname, right?
Axl clears his throat. “How about we take this one step at a time.”
My eyes dip together, and a frown creases my forehead. What the hell does he know?
“Why?” Panic bubbles to the surface, and my chest grows tighter with every breath I take.
“Did my family do this to me? Is that why nobody has come forward? Who am I? Why did it take you two so long to find me?” The questions rush out as monitors begin going crazy.
I fight with the blanket covering my body and stumble out of bed, narrowly missing hitting Brute with the shoulder I was shot in that still freaking hurts.
Both men seem to jump into action and grab for me, but our size differences make it easier for me to slip out of their grasp and into the bathroom, where I fumble with locking the door.
Sitting in the shower stall, panting to catch my breath, I reach up with my slinged arm.
There’s a ripping and burning sensation as I turn on the cold water and get blasted with an icy shower, trying to force my body into remembering to breathe.
Blood from ripped stitches swirls around me as a memory slams into my head, forcing a scream to the surface before everything turns black.
* * *
Just a little longer. Just one more cut. Just one more release, and I’ll call it quits. The heat of the shower water relaxes my body enough that the burn turns to a sweet caress.
The sting is a lover's touch. The fresh cut is no longer my shattered heart as I watch a tiny stream of blood slide down the inside of my thigh, into the water coating the bottom of the tub, and slowly whirling towards the drain.
The release of my pain escapes through the open wound as my lifeforce finds its way into another system. One where my heart doesn’t break, my mind isn’t played like broken games. One where breathing doesn’t matter.
Only escape.
* * *
Gasping awake, the memory flutters away like a butterfly from its cocoon. Gone. Forgotten. As if it were never there at all.
I’m sobbing into my bent knees as water continues to freeze my already ice-cold skin when I’m startled by the door buckling and crashing against the wall as Brute and Axl force their way in. The nurse shouts at them, but I don’t care. None of it matters because my goal is to feel nothing at all.
The physical, emotional, and mental pain cripples me like a weight on my soul.
I’m alive, but I feel dead.
My heart beats with life, but I don’t want to be here.
The worst of it all is I can’t say why I feel the way I do. Nobody is willing to tell me what happened before I was found, except that I was shot.
Twice.
Once in the head and once in the shoulder.
I was left for dead, but my body screams at me that there’s so much more that’s been done to me. This feeling in my chest wails that the shooting is only the tail end of my ordeal. I feel like I’m a casualty of life and can’t explain why.
“Finleigh.” Warm, callused hands grip my shoulders. It’s not gentle, but neither is it forceful. “You can’t stay in this water.” Brute’s gruff timber breaks through the emotions and brings me to the present as I finally register the water pounding onto me like tiny icicles stabbing my flesh.
Nodding my head in agreement, he’s quick to drag me from the shower and scoop me up into his arms, growling as someone tries to push their way in and get a look at me. I bury my face in his chest and inhale deeply—the first full breath since waking up in the hospital.
He smells like smoke, motor oil, and gunpowder. It’s unclear how I know what those things smell like, and certainly not my name, but I’m trusting that he won’t hurt me. I have to, or I’ll fall apart again.
“I need to know everything that’s happened to me,” I whisper into Brute’s throat as he sits down with me, someone draping us with a blanket.
“Gentlemen, I really need to assess her.” They both bark out “no” at the nurse’s stubborn tone.
Lifting my eyelids, they feel more swollen, and I realize I’ve been crying. Axl’s hazel gaze bores into mine. I can’t read him. The two of them keep their thoughts close to the chest.
“You want her to stay?” Axl finally asks me, his eyes darting to the nurse, who is scowling and has her arms crossed. Shaking my head no, she huffs and leaves.
“They haven’t told us more than what’s been released to the media,” Brute explains. “We will, however, be speaking to the medical staff and authorities. There are questions we have.”
“Like what?” I burrow deeper into him. Now that the shivering has stopped and his body heat has seeped into me, I’m starting to feel tired again.
“Suspects. Locations. How hard they’ve tried to identify you.” He sounds so angry.
The coiled tension should set me on edge, make me want to escape his embrace, but I find it comforting instead. His strength is something solid to hold onto without fear of the problems to come.
Closing my eyes, I lean heavily into him when I feel a light fluttering in my stomach. I don’t know how, but I keep forgetting I’m pregnant. Creating a life inside of me is terrifying.
“Is the baby yours?” Are my words slurred? I’m just so exhausted, tired of being in fight-or-flight mode.
“Yeah, it’s ours.” Axl sounds amazed. Like he didn’t know, but I can’t grasp onto that thought before exhaustion pulls me under without asking about it.