Chapter 28 Brielle
Hold On, Chord Overstreet
Tilly and I walk down the cobbled pathway to the hospital.
“Ya know, Bobby is a real sweetheart. He has now proposed with three rings! THREE! ’Cause I keep saying ‘not yet.’ That man has no patience, I tell ya.
” She emphasizes her point with her delicate hands.
“I figure if I keep this up, the man is gonna buy me a motorcar or a house!” She giggles to herself, placing her black-gloved hand over her mouth.
We rush inside the warm hospital and take our patient assignments. She giggles about her recent escapades with Bobby and asks how “marital bliss” is, though Everett and I have only been married for a week.
I refrain from telling her how much bliss he has given me on our dining room table, the library, the bathtub and, well, almost everywhere in our new home.
It is still a strange feeling to have moved into his large house. I still have my townhome, for it’s a walk away from the hospital and Piggy enjoys our small, cozy abode rather than the large mansion Everett has.
Luckily Tilly’s assignment is close by mine, so I can listen to her boast about Bobby’s flamboyant displays of affection.
As we clean up a patient she continues, “The other night, he wrote me a poem. It was awful! Talking ’bout how my hair was as fine as yellow straw, and my arse was as curvy as the hills in Edinburgh.
I’m not even sure if Edinburgh has a lot of hills.
But I didn’t dare tell him that. It had no rhyme to it, but I swear the way ’is eyes light up just makes me heart so ’appy.
I love how much joy we bring to one another’s lives.
Maybe the next time he proposes I’m just gonna say yes already.
It’s only been a couple months but hell, life is too short! ”
Her rosy cheeks flare as she explains the sweetest details between Bobby and her .
It reminds me of my own face flushing at Everett’s touch. His hands on my body, and—
“Nurse Holberry, we got a new patient arrived! Isolation Room 174, please hurry. The squad that pulled in said they need a nurse immediately, possible tuberculosis. I’ll find the physician!” our charge nurse shouts at us.
Tilly turns toward me after placing the blanket back on the now clean impaired patient. “I’ll help you out, darling,” she states as she hurries to the sink, washing her hands.
I begin gathering supplies that are usually helpful during an admission. Swiftly grabbing various items that may become useful to have at hand.
After trudging down the hall I make it to the room, having forgotten for a moment it’s one of the tuberculosis isolation rooms. It has a small ante room adjoined to the patient room where staff can gather their isolation gear and enter safely.
Opposite the main room is the ambulance door, so squads could place patients within the room and not come in contact with other personnel in the hospital hallways or waiting rooms.
Spotting Tilly a few yards behind me, I enter the isolation room and don the isolation gear. The heavy gown scratches across my uniform and the large mask weighs on my cheeks. I peer through the small glass window on the door, barely seeing any movement within the room.
The room is drenched in omniscient darkness.
Did they just drop the patient off?
Unfortunately, with the negative stigma hovering over tuberculosis, many individuals, including staff, would do as little as possible to aide tuberculosis patients. They would rather run like it was the bubonic plague.
Understandable.
Having placed the isolation gown and gloves snugly on my body, I cover my face with the Gibbs breathing apparatus.
It has clear plastic covers so I can see, accompanied with a long sealed plastic cone approximately five to six inches long that juts out to fit around the nose and mouth, allowing oxygen to pass through.
A hose could be attached to the plastic cone, so it may connect with a small respirator machine that could push oxygen into the mask.
I tighten the straps on the back of my head, making sure they’re secure .
As I enter the room, I make sure all doors are firmly shut behind me to ensure the negative pressure balance of the room.
Glancing around, I find two young men in isolation gear. One is looking through drawers for supplies as the other stares down at a clipboard.
“Hello, gentlemen, what can you give me for report?” I ask.
As I near the patient’s bed, I look up at the two men, who are staring at me like I have six foreheads.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
Turning to check on the patient, I notice they aren’t connected to any hospital devices.
“Hi, dear, I’m just going to check—”
A man in a three-piece pinstripe suit lies in the bed. His jet-black hair is slicked back and his brown eyes are filled with malice. “Hello, Miss Brielle. I’m Michael Sabini.”
I try to rush away from the bed, but the other men come to my sides and grip my arms.
Then the door opens.
Tilly .
Oh no.
No, no, no. Tilly, run.
I thrash in their hold, trying to scare Tilly and have her leave the room to go get help. My faithful friend lunges for the emergency button on the wall, but one of the men grabs her from behind.
Michael Sabini rises from the bed. “Well, seems like we will be having an eventful evening. Put them in the vehicle.”
I look over at Tilly, seeing the panic through the mask. I yell, “I’m so sorry, Tilly. I’m so—”
Pain erupts from the back of my head as someone hits me with a blunt object and places me in a commandeered ambulance.
They force Tilly and I into the back of the vehicle as we fight their restraint.
As they wrap our wrists in ropes, I glare up to find Michael Sabini entering the back of the vehicle with us.
A wicked smile adorns his face, with a thin black mustache outlining his upper lip.
The men roughly rip off our masks. Sabini stands in front of me, one goon at my side and the other beside Tilly. The driver must have been ready and waiting outside the building .
“You see, Miss Brielle, I know your little boyfriend did something to my dear brother. Well, sorry, but you’re just collateral.”
As he makes that statement, I hear Tilly’s voice growling in the background. “When they hear about what you did to us, they will fucking gut you .”
Michael tsks. “That’s no way for a lady to talk, honey.” Then he snaps his fingers and the goon next to Tilly begins punching her—one punch to her gut, another across her beautiful face.
I scream, “Stop it! Stop!”
A hand slaps over my mouth as Michael’s face comes flush with mine. His eyes glare into my soul as his fingertips dig into my flesh.
“Save it! You will only scream for mercy by my blows.” Then I feel the fire of a fist exploding into my cheek as he throws a left hook at my face. I slam onto the metal floor of the vehicle, pain radiating across my skull.
Then forceful blows crush into my abdomen, one after another.
He’s kicking me.
I can’t even scream, as the air is being forced from my torso.
Tears well in my eyes and run down my face, but I can’t let out a sound. I clutch forward, hoping to grasp onto something, but the bastard stomps on my outstretched hand with the heel of his oxford shoes.
Tilly wails, “brIELLE!”
I want to tell her it will be all right, that the boys will come and give retribution, but with each kick to my abdomen, the last strings of hope in my soul fray thinner and thinner.
Ten— kick .
Eleven— kick .
I try to disassociate. Try the old coping mechanism that let me live through the torment of my ex-husband.
Fifteen— kick .
I can taste bile and a tinge of blood in my mouth from the reflux induced by his exertion.
I can’t hear Tilly crying anymore, only agonizing moans from her location. Then there’s the sound of a firearm.
TILLY.
“What the fuck ?” Michael exclaims .
Then a goon replies, “She reached for my gun, sir! She fucking made it go off, she shot her own goddamn leg. What was I supposed to do, let her shoot me?”
My sweet Tilly, NO ! I must help her.
But how ?
Despair etches into my veins.
At this rate, he’s going to make my organs hemorrhage, and Tilly could be dying.
Seventeen— kick .
Then the vehicle comes to an abrupt stop as Michael braces against the side walls of the ambulance to hold himself steady.
Men open the back doors of the ambulance. “Get them out and chain them,” Michael orders as he slicks back his hair.
I can only see so much with the tears swelling up in front of my vision. Then I feel hands on me, dragging me out of the vehicle by the legs, then hauling me up by my upper arms. The pressure in my abdomen erupts with more pain. I didn’t think the pain could get any worse than it was.
“Sir, what you want us to do with this one?” a goon asks, probably pointing to Tilly.
Michael snorts in frustration. “I said GET THEM OUT AND CHAIN THEM!”
“Sir…?” the goon holding my right arm asks.
“WHAT!?” Michael yells.
“Sir, she’s, um, bleeding… Um…” he nervously exclaims, unable to fully state his observation.
Michael Sabini approaches me, crouching down.
“Holy shit. So I won’t just get to kill you—looks like I can tally my murder board for killing an Afton already.”
Slumped over in pain and confusion, I don’t understand what he means.
His hand grips my face. “Did you even know?” Michael studies my tear-ridden face then spits in it.
“I know what a fucking miscarriage looks like, my sister had so fucking many and I remember the amount of blood she lost.” Then he laughs, the most disturbing sound I’ve ever heard, as I try to process the new information given to me.
The two men trudge forward, arm in arm with me as my feet drag along the gravel road to a large building. As they drag me, I glance at my groin to find a large crimson stain, seeping down my legs toward my ankles.
Fuck .
I didn’t know. As I recollect my last menstruation and the potential timeline, a new horrible feeling washes over me.
This is all my fault. We should have used protection, but we didn’t and now I’ve killed our baby. The pain continues to lurch across my abdomen and torso, radiating more with the emotional and mental pain of this new loss.
I’m dragged to the middle of a room, surrounded by concrete and stone. It’s clearly still being built and not finished. The area is unfamiliar.
They force me to sit in a wooden chair, hands still tied behind my back. The force of them placing me within the chair causes shock waves to reverberate throughout my body.
Gasping in pain, I lock eyes with Tilly.
Her face, her beautiful face is bloodied, her nose crooked and her golden hair stained crimson. The gunshot wound is in her right upper leg, potentially too close to her artery with how much blood is leaking down her leg.
She needs a tourniquet.
I need to save her.
That is so much blood. Too much blood.
We share a terrified look, wondering if these will be our last moments.
I wish I could speak.
Wish I could comfort Tilly, hold her and tell her everything will be fine, even though we know it could be the end.
One of the goons grabs Tilly by the back of her head and sneers, “I’m going to have fun with you.”
Her whimper breaks my heart.
A ripple of suffering crosses my stomach as I pathetically scream in agony. Then a large palm smacks me across my face, igniting it in heat and pain.
“Shut up, you fucking—”
Before he can utter another word, a large explosion knocked through the far wall, causing the door embedded in it to thrust forward and hit one of the goons. Tilly screams as chaos unfurled.
As the smoke settles, several figures move through the unfurling haze.
My heart lurches into my throat as I spot Biscuit, Bobby, Kenneth, Lyle and Lloyd .
So many mixed emotions at one time, but we aren’t in the clear yet.
We are not safe yet.
Kenneth pulls out a shotgun from behind his back and takes aim, then fires at one goon who tries to run away from him.
Bobby rushes to Tilly’s side, yelling incoherently.
Lloyd and Biscuit run after Michael as Lyle shoots a couple bullets into the goon at my side.
Then a beautiful voice echoes from the concrete walls.
“How dare you take my boys’ girls ,” Baba growls.
Her peppered-gray hair is in a long battle braid across her back. Small jewels in it twinkle when they catch a hint of light.
She has a large black-stained wooden staff in one hand that towers over her small but terrifying stature.
My attention is drawn from Baba as my heart breaks at hearing Bobby cry. I look over to find him cradling Tilly’s face with one hand, whispering sweet words to her as he kisses her cheeks.
He has placed his belt onto her leg as a tourniquet, while holding his hand over her bullet wound.
“Sweetheart, please, please don’t leave,” he cries. “ Please , I need you. I fucking need you.”
Countless emotions hit me. The reality of the events that just transpired over a short time frame rip open my chest, flaying my heart.
I begin to wail alongside him, looking at her lifeless body and pallid skin.
They’re too late.
And I didn’t help her.
I didn’t do a damn thing.
I brought Tilly into this lifestyle, as well as my unborn child, and they both died.
Lyle cuts the ropes across Tilly’s wrists and her body slumps into Bobby. Her bloody, matted hair sticks to her gray face.
“Mate, I think she’s gone,” Lloyd states.
Bobby’s brows pull together as he yells with ferocity, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
He begins rocking Tilly back and forth.
Lyle and Kenneth alert me to their presence as they cut the ropes from my wrists and assist me in standing.
“We got you, dear, we got you,” Lyle exclaims into my ear.
I see Baba lay a tender hand on Bobby’s upper back as he clutches Tilly’s body, trying to will the life back into her. He repeats a heartbreaking, “ No , no , no , Till. My Tilly. No, please. ”
Baba slowly rubs circles on Bobby’s back, then bows her head and speaks an old language. “Bringe liv fra det som er dodt. Robert,” she states softly, with such compassion. “My dear. We must make them pay. Let me take care of our Tilly.”
Bobby looks upon Tilly, wiping away the matted hair from her face, then leans in to kiss her forehead. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”
Then he slowly rises, carrying her lifeless body toward the awaiting vehicles outside the building.
Leaning on Lyle for support, I trudge behind Bobby, watching as he marches forward, Tilly’s delicate hand swaying with each step.
He carefully lays her body in the back of one motorcar as he climbs in beside her. His face radiates malice—its features full of vengeance.