Chapter 12 #2
It makes me nauseous, first the smell and then the taste, and my stomach isn’t used to eating so much anymore.
But I force it down, not daring to leave even a morsel on the plate.
When I’m finished, I breathe a sigh of relief, and stumble up and toward the bedroom.
But before I can reach it, a second wave of nausea overtakes me, this one far greater, and I rush to the bathroom, where I promptly vomit all the contents of my stomach.
Fuck. I am in deep shit. He must have seen the whole thing, either because he’s still in the house somewhere, or because he got cameras installed.
Probably the latter; I doubt he would stay a minute longer here than necessary.
But I no longer have the strength even to be scared.
I feel ill, exhausted, and my body is wracked with pain. All I can think of is sleep.
I barely notice the thick blanket on the bed, or the disinfectant and cream on the night table, with the pile of sterile compresses beside them.
The note propped on top of the tub of cream, with its threatening order: Treat, blurs before my eyes, and before I can even think of following those instructions, I’ve sunken into a deep sleep.
__
I don’t know how long I sleep, dead to the world, but I’m startled awake by the feel of something cool on my upper thighs.
Seized with panic, I struggle against the hand that pins me down.
But it doesn’t seem bothered by my resistance.
It simply pins me down harder, its hold like iron, and a voice rumbles in my ear, “Enough.”
Fear battles it out with anger, and the wave of bitter, crushing fury comes out on top. What is he doing to me now? What have I done to deserve this humiliation?
The pain that racks my body keeps me helpless, even as my mind seethes.
It takes me a moment to realize Damien isn’t doing anything but treating my wounds. The coolness is the disinfectant that he’s dabbing me with liberally, on my thighs, my bottom, my lower back. Then he coats my skin thickly with the cream, and I exhale slowly as the pain subsides.
Behind me, I can feel him continuing to apply his treatment tersely, and he seems to be on the verge of speaking several times. This hesitation is very unlike him. I’m even more surprised when he grunts, “I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly.”
I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, and right now I’m incapable of moving either. That’s probably a good thing, because if I weren’t so incapacitated, I’d spit in his face. Kick him, punch him, bloody that beautiful body of his.
The words that leave his mouth are bullshit.
Pure bullshit. They sound true, but I know better.
They’re meant to fuck with my mind, to make me doubt myself, make me doubt everything.
That’s how it’s been ever since the first time I laid eyes on him and stabbed him with a stapler.
When he stripped me and locked me in the cell and soothed me, and somehow succeeded in playing the part, not of my captor, but of my savior.
I wish I had the strength to stab him with a stapler now. Better yet, with a fucking knife.
But I’m far too weak. Physically, but also mentally. The fury dissolves, and all I can do is succumb to the feel of his hands on my body, even though I know it means nothing.
He finishes treating my wounds, and gently, far too gently, flits my shirt down. I realize that he’s left his shirt on me, and I’m thankful for it, because I don’t know what I’d do without it. The scent of him that still clings to it helps me sleep.
His hands leave my body and tuck me in, under a thick wool comforter. A new blanket. He nearly beat me to death and brought me a new blanket. What the fuck.
Even though the comforter is thick and warm, I can’t seem to stop shaking.
The pain in my backside has subsided, but the pain that wracks my body is only getting worse. My hands feel clammy, my throat is parched, my head throbs. I feel achy all over, and my stomach is roiling with nausea.
By now, Damien is standing up. I hear him leave the room quietly. I wonder if he’ll leave me alone for now. I can’t decide if that thought makes me relieved or upset. But a moment later, I hear the clinking of a frying pan, and then, the smell of cooking food.
Oh, fuck. I can’t eat. I literally can’t. I just can’t.
In spite of everything, I doze off again, waking up only when he enters the room once more and sets down a plate of food gruffly.
It’s spaghetti and meatballs. My stomach practically hurls at the sight of it.
“Eat,” he orders.
I sit up with difficulty, my body wanting to obey even as my mind still throbs with anger. But all I can do is stare at it, at him.
“I said, eat,” he says, his voice harsh. “I know you threw up the last plate of food. Eat now, or I’ll punish you again.”
The threat feels distant, unreal. I don’t feel the pain of his last whipping anymore. Only achiness over every inch of my skin, and loss, heartbreaking loss. It overtakes all the rest, even my anger.
“This is the last time I’ll ask politely,” he warns. “You’re going to eat this food, or you’ll regret it.”
I can’t help it. I really can’t. My entire body seizes with sobs, and the tears spill out, unheeded, drenching my cheeks. I can’t stop it any more than I can stop breathing. My body seems to have turned into a pile of mush.
He sighs in exasperation, sits down next to me, and drags me onto his lap. I try to prepare myself for the force-feeding that I assume will follow, and perhaps that’s what he meant to do, but the second he touches me, he pauses.
“Damn it,” he mumbles. “You’re sick.”
In a flash, he lifts me up and carries me outside. I shiver in the night air, barely registering the thought that this darkness means I’ve slept all day. He places me gently into his car, takes off his jacket, and covers me with it. Then he sits behind the wheel and drives off.
I fall asleep again, waking when the car grinds to a halt in front of a large building lined with doors, with a sign flashing in front of it: Motel.
He takes out his cell phone, muttering to himself, “Finally, some reception.” Then he speaks louder. “Yeah. She’s sick. I’ve got her. Need your help.”
Two minutes later, one of the doors opens onto Logan.
He walks hurriedly to the car, carrying a suitcase.
I once deeply disliked him, but then, he saved me from Damien, though Damien later told me he’d never planned to kill me.
I know the truth, now, and I vaguely wonder if he’ll protect me from Damien again before I drift off once more.
I’m startled awake once more by an electronic beep on my head, and a husky voice in my ear. “106.”
“What the fuck?” growls Damien. “Are you sure your thermometer works? Isn’t that the kind of fever that’ll kill you?”
I lay back feebly, wondering why he’s so worried about me dying. “No time to send for our doctor,” says Logan. “Get her to the hospital. We’ll figure out the coverup later.”
Gritting his teeth, Damien presses on the gas pedal and sends us barreling down the road. I only have time to marvel at the speed before I’m submerged again in a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next thing I know, his warm, strong arms are wrapped around my body, and I feel myself being carried into a place with bright lights that hurt my head.
I hear Damien and Logan speaking with nurses, but it all feels very far away.
I’m placed on a medical trolley, too out of it to notice the pain searing my back as it presses against the thin mattress.
I feel pricks and pinches on my body as needles are pressed into my skin and I’m connected to a whole host of drips.
Then I pass out again, my vision fading just as I notice Damien’s pale face bent over me, concern clear in his eyes.
Must be an illusion, I think to myself, before going under.
__
“Psycho—what?”
“Psychogenic fever. Do you know if your girlfriend has been stressed lately?”
This time, when I open my eyes, I feel a lot better.
The pain in my temples has ebbed, the soreness in my throat and the pain in my skin has disappeared, except for a dull throb in my backside.
I feel more awake than I have in a while, and I can’t help but overhear the conversation that Damien is carrying out with the doctor at the foot of the bed.
“She had a 106-degree fever, and you’re telling me it’s all in her head?” says Damien angrily, and I cringe back into the bedsheets at the sound of his temper.
Logan, standing beside him, notices I’m awake before I can shut my eyes again. He turns to speak to Damien, but the latter is too focused on yelling at the doctor to notice me.
“Psychogenic fever is a psychosomatic fever caused by an overload of stress,” explains the doctor calmly.
“While it originates in the mind, it is very real, and can cause high fevers. We haven’t found any sign of infection, and it’s the most likely explanation at this point. Has your girlfriend been stressed?”
Girlfriend. What an odd word to designate the person you’re planning to kill.
But Damien doesn’t react. Instead, he admits grudgingly, “I guess she’s probably been a bit stressed, yes.”
Logan snorts.
“But a 106 fever, just from stress…” protests Damien again in a deflated sort of way.
“It can happen, yes,” states the doctor.
“Psychogenic fever is not in itself a medical emergency, but hyperpyrexia—a body temperature of 106 or more—is. It can cause lasting organ damage if not treated quickly. It’s essential that her stress be limited.
We can give her anxiety medication, but it won’t do much if it’s not accompanied by lifestyle changes.
Are there any steps you can take to help keep her anxiety at bay? ”
“I can think of a few,” smirks Logan.
Damien glares at him. “I’ll handle it,” he tells the doctor. “When can she leave?”
“As soon as her fever is under control. Of course,” he hedges, “we’ll want to examine her first. I see she’s awake.”
He nods at me with a kind smile, but I cringe further back into the bed as Damien’s cold eyes take me in. I wish I’d had the sense to stay asleep.
“How long have you been awake?” he asks in a neutral tone, but I sense the threat hiding behind his words.
The doctor watches our interaction, his face registering slight surprise. “I thought you told me she was your girlfriend?”
Damien hesitates. “I did, yes.”
I stifle a gasp. Why would he have said that?
“I think it would be best if I speak to her in private,” suggests the doctor. “Perhaps we can get at some of the root of her anxiety. You know, even with the best intentions, we can sometimes inadvertently cause stress to the ones we love best.”
Logan snorts again.
Damien gratifies him with another glare, before turning back to the doctor. “There’s no point in speaking to her. She’s mute.”
The doctor raises an eyebrow. “Oh? She doesn’t speak at all? When did this begin?”
“Well, she’s never spoken much,” says Damien. “But these past few months, she hasn’t spoken at all.”
The doctor jots down a few things on his clipboard. “That sounds like it could be selective muteness. A condition usually brought on by a high level of stress. Has she experienced trauma in her life?”
Damien doesn’t answer, and I can feel his dark blue eyes fixed on me, though I don’t dare to look up at him.
“You could say that,” mutters Logan.
“But you’re telling me she doesn’t speak at all,” continues the doctor thoughtfully. “Usually, people with selective muteness don’t talk to people they’re uncomfortable with, but they can and do speak to close friends and family.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t have any of those.” Logan’s looking at me too, now, and I have the sudden urge to go back into that hole six feet underground, just so they’ll stop staring at me.
“Not even you?” questions the doctor.
“Listen,” snaps Damien, tearing his eyes away from me. “Is this a fucking interrogation? Her fever’s down. Sign the release papers and let us go.”
The doctor seems a bit taken aback. “I… I’ll go see about that. I’ll be right back.”
He hurries away, and in a flash, Damien’s by my bedside, removing the IV drips with a none too gentle hand. Then he lifts my trembling body up in his arms.
“Let’s go,” he grunts, “before that idiot calls the police.”
He hurries down the hallway, closely followed by Logan.
“Hey! Stop!”
The doctor’s just seen us, and he tries to block us from going down the hallway, but Logan pushes him aside, and in just a few moments we’re out of the hospital and in the car.
I can’t control my shaking anymore as Damien whirls onto the highway, speeding past the other cars. Logan presses an electronic thermometer to my temple.
“Her fever’s going up again,” he warns. “102… 103… fuck, 104…”
“WELL, FUCKING DEAL WITH IT!” roars Damien. “GET HER TO UNSTRESS!”
Those are the last words I hear before I thankfully plunge once more into a deep, unnatural sleep.