CHAPTER ONE ALICE
SHACKLED BY SILENCE
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Over the steady rhythm of my heart monitor, Lavender straightens my top sheet.
“And then I gave him an ultimatum,” she says. “If his mom moves in, I’m outta there.”
As I listen to her recounting the fight with her boyfriend, my heart squeezes with envy. Lavender sounds so brave, sure of herself. She talks about walking away as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I wish I had a fraction of that courage. I think I used to have a backbone, but it has long since crumbled to dust.
Papa made sure of that years ago, constantly reminding me that being an Elite without a drop of magic was a heinous crime.
Stale Sweat obviously doubts Lavender has a backbone either. She scoffs from the corner. “You? Take a stand? I’ll believe that when I see it. You’re such a pushover.”
The harsh judgment in her voice makes me want to shrink into the mattress. I want to tell Lavender not to listen to her, to protect herself.
They talk over me, around me, as if I’m just a piece of the furniture. I don’t know their real names, so I label them by their scents.
Lavender smells like fabric softener and sadness.
Stale Sweat smells like unwashed scrubs and too much coffee.
I want to tell Lavender to start secretly saving money for her running-away fund, and to stop buying Stale Sweat iced lattes when she conveniently forgets her wallet every day.
I try to focus on their conversation, but once again a strange, static hum starts up in my head. A faint, phantom whisper—like a radio station tuned between two channels.
This happens nearly every time I’m awake. It’s unnerving.
—here—lost—
My skin cold-prickles under the sheet. The words are definitely not coming from the nurses. It’s all in my head. It makes me wonder if I’m mad and everything around me is a figment of my imagination.
The door opens with its tell-tale squeak, and my chest tightens.
No. This is real.
“Good morning, ladies.” Dr. Twadoski’s voice.
His presence fills the room, along with his cologne, until I feel entirely suffocated. Yesterday, I heard a midnight-shift orderly call him Dr. Twat behind his back. To mock a man so powerful, so arrogant, so utterly in control of everyone’s fate, feels dangerous.
“And how is our Jane Doe today?” he asks.
“Chatty-Cathy as usual, Dr. Twadoski,” Stale Sweat replies, tone filled with her regular easy sarcasm.
There’s a sharp pause. “A medical report will suffice, nurse.” Dr. Twadoski’s voice is ice cold.
“Sorry, doctor,” she mumbles, snark disappearing. “Vitals are stable, though her temperature is still elevated. Zero voluntary response to verbal or tactile stimuli since shift change at seven. Chart’s updated.”
Lavender gives my top sheet one last tug. It’s so tight against my body that it makes me feel more trapped than I already am.
“Get on with your other patients,” the doctor tells them. “I’ll handle the rest of the morning assessment.”
“Yes, doctor,” Lavender murmurs. There is the squeak of the door opening and closing again and then I’m alone with him.
He scares me. There’s a coldness about him.
Click. A soft noise which I believe is his voice recorder. “The patient continues to exhibit a lack of volitional movement,” he dictates.
A shadow looms over my line of vision, I can see the edge of the doctor’s head.
He reaches out, roughly lifting my upper lip.
“Persistent ocular icterus and marked mucosal jaundice. Her liver and kidney panels remain severely elevated despite three days of broad-spectrum IV antibiotics and aggressive fluid resuscitation, indicating an irreversible neurological collapse. The intermittent eye-opening remains a simple brainstem reflex rather than a conscious response. She has no cognitive awareness.”
Not true.
I stare silently at the water stain on the ceiling.
I am very cognitively aware, not that anyone realizes—or cares.
Dr. Twadoski continues. “Given the lack of neurological progress, she will be transferred when the paperwork is processed.” A finger snaps in front of my left eyeball. “The county off-site long-term care facility for however long she has left.”
Getting moved. Will that make it harder or easier for him to find me?
“Her identity is still unknown.” The recorder clicks off.
“Why don’t they just put her face online?” he mutters. “Someone will know who she is.”
NO! Please, please don’t do that. Don’t make me visible.
He pulls down the sheet and yanks my gown up. Tears are welling in my brain. I just can’t let them out.
Click. “Bite marks on breasts almost healed. Vaginal and anal tearing to be re-inspected tomorrow.” Click.
“Now to check sensory responses,” he mutters. Leaving my body exposed to the cool air, he lifts my limp arm. I feel the brush of his gloved fingers against my skin, then a sharp pain pierces the fleshy part of my forearm.
I want to pull away, to cry out, but of course I cannot. He stabs me again.
IT HURTS!
STOP!
“Nociceptive testing yields zero withdrawal or pain reflex. Patient is entirely unresponsive to painful stimuli.”
“Dr. Twadoski, the updates on the—”
Who is that? I didn’t even hear the door open again.
The voice is deep but younger sounding.
“Dr. McKenna,” Dr. Twadoski says, his voice flat. It’s immediately obvious he doesn’t like the newcomer. “Can I help you?”
This Dr. McKenna makes an almost angry growling noise. “Where are the chaperones? Policy requires a female attendant present for sensitive physical examinations.”
Twadoski clicks his tongue. “She isn't aware of her surroundings, resident, let alone the gender of her providers.”
A shift of air moves across my bed. Then there’s another smell that drowns out the pungent cologne Twadoski wears. The new man smells of cedar, fresh and clean.
His hand, warm, gentle, reaches to pull down my gown. Then he draws the sheet up to my collarbone, hiding my shame.
Thank you. I hate those ugly scars I’ve lived with for so long.
For a second, his fingers brush against the side of my face. The touch is so incredibly tender, that the panic in my mind lessens for a beat.
At the same time, the strange static and phantom voice flares again in the back of my mind.
—tell—please—
First locked inside my own skin, and now hearing voices. My outlook is grim.
“I’m finished here anyway,” Dr. Twadoski snaps. “Get someone to sponge-bathe her, she stinks.”
I probably do, but I’m so used to not having access to soap, that I’ve become nose-blind to my own scent.
“As you wish, doctor.”
Outwardly, the words Dr. McKenna replies with are toneless, but I sense the teeth-gritted restraint behind them. I know what anger sounds like.
When Dr. Twadoski leaves the room, the atmosphere shifts and my body relaxes. Not that anyone can tell.
A chair scrapes against the floor and I hear a long ragged sigh. “Hey, there. I’m Boden, but my friends call me Bo.”
Bo.
He reaches out and takes my hand. “I am so sorry about how you’re being treated,” he murmurs softly.
“It’s obvious you’ve been through hell.” His thumb makes small, comforting circles against my wrist. “But you're safe now. I know it probably doesn’t feel like it, but I’m looking out for you.
Security knows not to let visitors in your room, and let me tell you, those security guys do not mess about. ”
“It’s sadly obvious someone has treated you very badly, Jane.” He lets out a tired sigh. “But that motherfucker is never going to get near you again. I promise.”
Read on in Shackled by Silence...