Chapter 5 Sydney
Sydney
Amachine beeps in time with my racing heart in this warm, dark room. I could sleep if my brain wasn’t filled with fire ants. If I didn’t sweat and shiver at the same time. If everything didn’t hurt.
My skin feels too tight. Rage and fear are voltage stored inside my bones, waiting for a chance to break free of their cage.
Weight depresses beside me on the bed.
A man guides me to a sitting position and removes my nightgown. I don’t have underwear to take off. Don’t fight him. Get through this and wait for an opportunity to escape.
He lays me down, murmuring nonsense about how he’s going to help me feel better.
He drapes my lower body with some kind of fabric and disconnects the lead lines attached to the machine. Terror floods through me until it’s impossible for me to separate fear of the man from the shaking that’s already killing me.
Tremors wrack my body no matter how hard I fight to stay still, but I can shut off my brain. I control my mind. I have to.
A light splash reaches my ears, then a warm, damp cloth passes over my face and neck, followed by a soft towel. He washes my body gently with vetiver-and-citrus-scented water, then rinses me clean.
Each time he completes an area, he dries me, then covers that part of me with what, I think, is a cotton blanket.
When he finishes, he drags a pair of underwear up my legs, then lifts me to sit.
With a strong arm braced behind my back, he tugs a big shirt over my head, lifting my arms for me and fitting them into the sleeves.
The soft T-shirt smells familiar. A memory knocks on the wall in my mind, and then it’s gone.
Unwelcome appreciation worms its way into my psyche, but I shut it down. This is just another game. He thinks I’ll cooperate if I’m grateful for being treated with kindness.
He picks me up in his arms and transfers me to the other bed in the room.
I shake and shudder, but keep my eyes squeezed tight as I wait for his body to come down on top of mine. Instead, he moves away. The swish and swoosh of fabric and the clank of the railing on the bed reach my ears.
Everything is soft and clean and quiet.
I have to know.
When I crack my eyelids open, only the light from the attached bath illuminates a posh bedroom, but it’s enough to see him. A tall man, built like a superhero from the movies, with the face of an archangel—or Lucifer—replaces my sweat-soaked sheets with clean ones.
He glances toward me, then approaches with a long, determined stride. “You’re awake.”
I stiffen as he wraps his arms around me and presses his face against my neck.
“You scared the hell out of me. How are you feeling?” he asks in a thick voice.
“Like s-sunshine and r-rainbows,” I whisper through chattering teeth. What am I doing? Shut up.
He lifts his head and reaches for a tumbler on the bedside table, bringing the straw to my lips. “It’s ice water, but I can get you juice or ginger ale—”
I jerk my face away. “No. I’ll be good.”
He stills. “You’re safe with me.”
He’s a good actor. He actually sounds like he means it.
I don’t have the strength to fight back when he lifts me into a bridal carry, so I don’t try. Look at me cooperating. A good little prisoner.
Instead of returning me to my bed, he sits on the edge of his own with me in his lap. “You’re in withdrawal, but you should level out soon. Maybe a few days. When you’re in it, it feels like eternity. I know. We have to be careful, but you’ll be okay. That’s why we have the heart monitor.”
“D-drugs?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, then says gently, “You had a couple different ones in your system. Trahypnofen was one of them.”
Never heard of it. “I d-don’t know anything.”
He brushes my hair from my forehead. “Memory loss is normal with that drug. Try not to worry. You’re safe now. You’re here with me, and no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it.”
I shake my head in painful, violent denial.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it,” he says.
Don’t speak. Don’t think. Why can’t I stop listening to him?
“You’re strong. You’re going to heal.” He presses his forehead against my temple, his hard hands clutching me like I’m his life raft.
Doesn’t he know? I couldn’t even save myself. “Who are you? What do you w-want?”
His breaths turn ragged, striking my skin with hard little puffs. “You don’t know me?”
“No.” My heart aches nearly as much as my tight throat, burning muscles, and the searing pain behind my eyes. Why?
“My name is Gabriel. You’re confused, but maybe . . . maybe the drugs aren’t completely out of your system. I’m sure everything will come back. What’s the last thing you remember?”
I can’t hold on to his name. I locked away my secrets, and that name may be the most precious one of all. “My name is Sydney Walsh McRae. I don’t know anything else. Put m-me down.”
He stands abruptly and carries me to my bed. Gently, he arranges me on the mattress, then covers me with a soft, sweet-smelling blanket, tucking it around me like I’m a little kid.
I jerk away from him, then stare wide-eyed, waiting for him to strike. To remind me who’s boss.
He steps backward, and I crane my neck to see his expression. To brace myself for whatever comes next, but darkness has cloaked his face entirely.
I shiver hard and roll onto my side, wrapping my arms around my knees and rocking in place. Despite my earlier fear, I miss the heat from his body. It isn’t weak to crave a human connection. It’s only a mistake if I give in to it.
“I’ll have the doctor reattach the EKG. Umm. Wait. First, I—hold on.” He walks to the other side of the room and picks up an orange, floppy lump curled on the foot of his bed. He returns immediately, holding it in his arms.
I frown, confused, and go motionless until he settles the soft, warm thing beside me. It shifts, a tail uncurling and flicking briefly. Then it purrs to beat the band. A cat. One who butts his head against my stomach and beneath my hand.
“I’m Gabriel. This is Rufus.” He clears his throat. “We’re yours.”
My heart squeezes painfully.
“Dr. Granthy will be here soon to check on you. He’s sleeping just down the hall,” he says.
I close my eyes, curl my shaking body around the cat, and turn back to the mantra that’s worn a groove in my mind, slipping into it like water down a drainpipe. And I drown.
I open my mouth and swallow when they feed me. I let them move my limbs for exercise. I even walk when he guides me to the bathroom. When they prop me up, I sit. And, occasionally, my mind floats close enough to the surface that meaning filters through.
That beautiful man talks to me the most. He coaxes.
Teases. Other times, the words roll like scattered gravel.
Sometimes, he says nothing at all. He washes me.
Brushes my hair and my teeth. Dresses me.
When he lays his head next to mine, his breaths moving in and out in a slow, deep rhythm, I sleep, with dreams I don’t remember.
And when he wraps his arms around my middle and rests the weight of his head on my stomach, and he breathes in quiet, choking, wet gasps, my lips part. But words don’t come.
If I could sift my fingers through his hair, I’d do it. I’d hold him and make this better. I fight to take my body and mind back. Search for the connection between the two.
But I hid myself too well for too long. I’ve become a ship on a cloud-covered night, not a star in sight to guide me home. So I remain. Lost.
My body sits where they put me, but my mind is a soundtrack set on repeat.
Each day, visitors come and go. An older couple tells the man he needs to take a break.
He doesn’t listen. A pregnant woman cries and says this time it’s my turn to get my head out of my ass.
Someone plops a blond toddler on my lap.
I try to come back for that baby and the other little ones who call me Aunt Syddie.
I fail.
There are days and nights here. Darkness and light. Music. Cuddles.
When a new set of visitors enters my sanctuary, conversation penetrates my fog.
I’d started to hope—during those times when the mantra was quiet enough to make room for it—that I could be safe in this warm, clean place, with food that wouldn’t drug me and hands that wouldn’t hurt.
I was wrong.
“Sydney, these are your co-workers, Rob and Amelia. They brought you flowers.”
They wait, then the one called Rob clears his throat. “Is she like this all the time? Does she ever come out of it or talk . . . ?”
The woman sniffles loudly. “She will. She’s going to get better. She just needs time.”
“Do the doctors think that? Because she looks like somebody lobotomized her.”
“Rob, oh my God. Don’t be insensitive,” Amelia snaps.
“I’m not trying to be a jerk. I feel really sorry for her, but she left a mess at the lab. If this is permanent, we need to know so we can work out a different plan.”
“If you can’t handle your job, I can always have Dad fire you and replace you with someone who can,” the one who never leaves says.
“I can handle it. But you’re expecting us to wait around indefinitely and pretend she didn’t cause—”
“That doesn’t sound like an apology.”
Rob huffs. “I apologize.”
“Not to me. To her.”
“To . . . her? She’s a vegeta—”
“She can hear you,” mine says coldly.
“I apologize, Sydney. I was . . . startled by your condition.”
Rufus jumps off my lap and hisses.
“Her cat doesn’t like me,” Amelia says with a nervous laugh and steps backward.
“He’s possessive.” The man picks up the cat and holds him against his chest.
“I can sit with her for a while,” the woman offers, “if you have other things you need to do. I’m happy to stay with her. I feel so awful for both of you.”
“No thank you. I have to cut this short. Her physical therapist will be here any minute. You can put the flowers on the table.”
“I’m so sorry, Syd. They looked better when we brought them, but that guard, Dave, practically tore them apart before he gave them back. I’ll get you more, though,” the woman says. “Please, call me if you need anything, Gabriel. Anything at all.”
The woman hugs me. “You’ll be back in the lab in no time,” she says in a watery voice.
Terror spikes and my pulse pounds in a visceral reaction that yanks my mind out of the ether and into my body, just like the night I woke to my caretaker bathing me. A shudder tries to work its way through me. Out of sheer instinct, I keep my gaze unfocused and hide my reaction.
“How does physical therapy work when she’s catatonic like that?” Rob’s voice sounds from somewhere across the room.
“Google is your friend,” my caretaker says in a hard voice.
When the door closes behind the intruders, I blink and take in my surroundings, the soft cotton clothing on my body, the carved marble fireplace, and large windows with deep-set stained wood ledges. Clean, but not safe. Just a trick.
Lifting my legs, I prop my heels on the chair so I can wrap my arms around my knees. Then, I turn my head to look at the paneled wooden door. The handsome one standing next to me frowns, then his eyes widen.
“Sydney? Are you . . . ?”
I look at him. Really look. Expensive black suit pants and a white button-down shirt, open at the collar. Jade-green eyes and an expression I can’t read. A doctor, maybe? Am I in an experimental treatment? Or is he some sick kidnapper playing games?
I have to get out of here.