13. Angel
The world is made of heavy, wet wool. It’s pressing into my eyes, my mouth, my lungs. I try to draw a breath, but it feels like pulling air through a crushed straw.
I’m drifting. I’m a leaf on a dark river, spinning slowly. Every time I get close to the shore—to the light—the current pulls me back under. My brain feels like a scratched record, skipping over the same broken fragments of sound and light.
Brian.
The name hits like a physical blow to my stomach. My body flinches, a tiny, involuntary twitch that sends a spike of fire through my lower half. I remember the red light. I remember the cold plastic in my mouth. I remember the weight of him—the way he didn’t listen.
Then, there’s Oliver. I remember the blur of his face above mine, the rhythmic, bone-cracking pressure of his palms pressing repeatedly on my chest.
“Stay with me, Angel! Don’t you bloody dare!”
The sound of sirens, a high-pitched scream that harmonized with the one trapped in my throat.
I remember the sterile, white-bright hum of the ambulance.
Oliver’s hand holding mine, his doctor-voice cracking as he told the paramedics everything.
I feel a hand now.
It’s large. Warm. Calloused in places Oliver’s hands aren’t. It’s gripping mine with a desperate, crushing strength, like I’m the only thing keeping the person attached to it from falling into the sun.
I force my eyelids up. They feel like they’ve been glued shut. The light in the room is soft, a dim hospital twilight, but it still stings. I turn my head slowly, my neck screaming in protest.
I see him.
He’s hunched over in a chair, his broad shoulders rounded, his head bowed. His hair is a mess, and he’s wearing a plain black t-shirt that looks like it’s been lived in for days.
Ghost.
I close my eyes immediately.
Hallucination. That’s the only explanation.
My brain is trying to comfort me in its final moments by conjuring the one thing I wanted most and the one thing that destroyed me.
I’m dead, or I’m dreaming, and either way, the Ghost in my head is a cruelty I can’t handle. I let the darkness swallow me again.
When the light returns, I feel the hand again. It hasn’t let go.
I open my eyes, slower this time. He’s still there. He hasn’t vanished into the shadows. He’s staring at me now, his grey-blue eyes bloodshot and rimmed with a raw, agonizing grief. He looks like a man who has walked through hell and came back with soot on his skin.
I try to pull my hand away, but I have no strength. I try to speak. I want to ask him why he’s in my dream. I want to tell him to go away so I can die in peace.
But no words come. Only a dry, pathetic wheeze.
Ghost’s entire body jolts. He leans forward, his face inches from mine. “Angel?” His voice is a broken rasp, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. “Angel, baby, can you hear me?”
He reaches out with his free hand and presses a button on the wall, his eyes never leaving mine. “Doctor! She’s awake! Get in here!”
He turns back to me, his fingers trembling as they brush a stray hair from my forehead. “You’re okay,” he whispers, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me. “You’re fine. I’ve got you. I’m right here, and I’m never leaving again. You hear me? Never.”
A doctor enters—tall, calm, and carrying the clinical scent of antiseptic. He looks at the monitors, then at me, and offers a small, practiced smile. He pours a cup of water and holds it out.
Ghost doesn’t let go of my hand. He uses his other arm to slide behind my neck, lifting my head just enough so I can sip. The water is cold, a miracle against my parched throat.
“Can you tell me your name, dear?” the doctor asks.
I swallow hard. My throat feels like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper. “Angel,” I croak. My voice is hoarse, a haunting, ghostly version of itself.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital,” I whisper. I look at Ghost, my confusion finally bubbling over. “Why... why are you...”
“I’m here,” Ghost says, his voice thick with emotion. He leans in and kisses my temple, his lips lingering there as if he’s trying to breathe his own life into me. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
The doctor clears his throat, holding a clipboard. He looks between us, then at me. “Angel, I need to discuss the extent of your injuries with you. Are you comfortable with me doing so with... this man.. present?”
I look at Ghost. He looks back with a gaze so fierce, so protective, that it almost hurts. I should be embarrassed. I should want him as far away from my shame as possible. But the thought of him letting go of my hand makes the void start to open up again.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The doctor nods, his expression turning serious.
“You lost consciousness because your brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen for a short period of time,” he begins, his voice steady.
“When the airway or blood flow to the neck is restricted, oxygen levels can drop quickly. In your case, it appears you fainted—which is the body’s way of protecting the brain when oxygen gets too low.”
I feel Ghost’s grip tighten. A low, dangerous vibration starts in his chest.
“We ran tests to ensure there was no permanent damage. Your oxygen levels have returned to normal, and the scans don’t show signs of brain injury. However, you’ll likely feel headaches and dizziness for a few days. You also have significant bruising and irritation around your neck,
consistent with the pressure applied there. We’ll be monitoring you for delayed complications, like swelling.”
He pauses, flipping a page on his clipboard. I want to close my eyes. I want to stop him before he says the rest. I know what’s coming.
“You also have injuries to the tissue of the anus,” he says, his voice remaining professionally detached.
“The lining there is delicate and can tear under force. We found small tears, called fissures, along with swelling and minor bleeding. These will cause soreness, especially when sitting. We’ll provide pain medication and stool softeners to reduce the strain while the tissue heals.”
He offers a small, encouraging nod. “The good news is that these injuries are treatable and not life-threatening. We’ll keep you here a bit longer to make sure there’s no worsening pain or dizziness.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I feel a heat crawl up my neck, a burning, stinging blush that makes me want to sink through the hospital mattress and disappear into the foundation of the building.
I can’t look at Ghost. I can’t. He’s the man who saw me as a child, the man who rejected me, and now he’s listening to a stranger describe the way I was ripped apart in a Mayfair basement.
Humiliation seems to have become the main theme in my life. I stare at the white tiled floor, my hand limp in his. I expect him to pull away. I expect the disgust to finally take hold—the revulsion that made him sick at the club.
Instead, I feel his thumb graze my knuckles, over and over, a steady, grounding rhythm. He doesn’t say a word, but the air around him feels like it’s humming with a lethal, quiet promise.
The doctor taps his pen against the clipboard, drawing my attention back.
“Whenever you feel ready, Angel,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine with a gravity that makes my breath catch. “The police are waiting. They’d like to speak with you about what happened.”
My heart gives a frantic, painful leap. The police. Brian. The club.
I look at Ghost finally. He isn’t looking at the doctor. He’s looking at me, and for the first time, I see a man who has finally stopped running.
“They’re going to wait,” Ghost says, his voice a low, terrifying growl. “She’ll talk when she’s ready.”
I close my eyes, a single tear escaping and sliding into my hair. I’m broken, bruised, and humiliated beyond repair.