Chapter 66 Vivian
Vivian
Present Day
Shadows flit in and out of her vision, a woman’s voice low as she speaks to someone else in the room—a male whose form seems to shape-shift, as if Vivian cannot, or does not, want to recognize him.
Her fear grows prickly, sharp.
Who are these people? Why is she here, at the Knox? Where the hell is Peter, her alleged boyfriend? Is he the man in the room?
She chews her hazy, ill-defined thoughts like food, and then gradually becomes aware that she is, in fact, chewing a piece of food.
No, make that a semisolid mass, like applesauce.
How did that happen? Is someone feeding her?
In the next moment, she’s startled to realize she’s sitting up, in a chair, propped up like some doll.
And she knows that she’s done this before, multiple times before: sit in the chair, eat.
Yet, without warning, she’s back in her bed. Hours erased, as if she’s been heavily sedated.
Christ. It’s the TBI. It’s making her mind appear and then disappear, allowing her to inhabit her body only for short spurts. But as she runs her tongue over her teeth, tasting the bitter remnants of Xanax, she realizes, with a chill, she is getting sedated.
Meanwhile, time ticks, ticks, ticks. There seems to be a waiting, a prolonged waiting. Something everyone is waiting for. Something she, by default, is waiting for.
Vivian knows, with absolute clarity, that it can’t be good.