Page 9 of Blind Devotion (Letters of Ruin #1)

I was floating, drifting about. No pain. No horrors. No miseries. Nothing to feel or see. Nothing to hear or touch. My world was an empty place, with no purpose past, present, or future.

I hated it. Time lost all meaning here. Minutes, hours, days—they all blended together. I picked a random direction and walked. There had to be an end.

I didn’t grow tired. I never had to stop. I never ate, never drank. The blankness went on. Didn’t matter if I ran or walked or sprinted, that path continued on and on.

Until a bubble appeared. Sparkly and multi-colored. Wavering and effervescent. I had two options: go around or go through. I knew what lay around it—that dismal nothingness I was so exhausted of—so I went through.

It was wet and sticky at first, absorbing its way into my pores and flowing under my skin, with both a chill and warmth this place lacked, until the bubble was me and I was it.

I remembered. Waking on that boat. The smoke, the heat of the flames, the agony of bleeding wounds, the cold water, the never-ending darkness, and the slap of waves.

That man’s voice and touch. How both had calmed me enough to let go and rest. There was only him.

His arms, his voice, his calm, his warmth, his strength.

Even that felt far, far away. Always just out of reach.

I left that bubble only to find another.

This one welcomed me like an old friend, wrapping around me and filling me with such contentment that I never wanted it to end.

Whereas the last bubble made me feel and experience everything but sight, with this one, I heard, I touched, I smelled, I tasted, but most importantly, I saw. Colors, people, a place.

A joyful girl with a flowered dress and shiny black shoes.

A grieving, broken boy with a scar down his face and dark-blue eyes I could never forget.

The stuffed animal, groomed and beautified, that connected them and started their friendship.

It felt as real as the memories on those boats, and yet foreign and distant at the same time.

I never wanted to leave, not when he was with me, holding my hand, looking at me in wonder.

A jolt went through my body. The edges of the bubble dissipated, and fire spread through my veins.

I gazed at my limbs expecting flames, only to find smooth skin, but by the time I looked back up, the bubbled scene was vanishing.

The tombs, the grass, the people—they whisked away into the darkness until all that was left were his captivating eyes.

They were hauntingly beautiful, anchoring me in this sea of nothingness.

They creased with laughter. They fell with pain.

They became voids of emotion. Those very eyes distorted and aged.

Not much, but enough to set and firm. Still, I recognized them, as if remembering a far-off dream.

Then they, too, started wisping away into nothingness.

“Don’t go,” I begged. My voice echoed. It was so lonely here, with nothing around, nothing to hold on to. “Please.”

The eyes vanished completely. I was alone again, and yet not. For the first time in forever, outside those bubbles, there was sound. A constant, rhythmic beep beep that slowly tugged me out of weightlessness. The sound sped up little by little.

Everything became heavier. What started as a dull ache everywhere grew stronger and stronger. The pain crested. I groaned in frustration, then moaned for that incessant beeping to end.

The darkness cloistered around me only for another sound to layer on top of it. A voice, sweet but firm, paired with a honeyed-floral perfume overtop the scent of lemon cleaning products. Huh, odd how I focused on that. Her words repeated, wrapping around me and thrusting me to the surface.

“ Vous m’entendez ?” French, the recollection of the language came so swiftly. Can you hear me, the woman asked. “My name is Dr. Margaux Conde. How are you feeling?”

Help me , I tried to reply. It came out more as a garble of sounds than words.

“Try to move your fingers. Can you do that?”

Fingers, knees, toes, and head. Everything felt so distant, except for the aches. Those were everywhere. I moaned through a wave of discomfort. A constant ringing in the distance was underlaid beneath the beeping of a machine. My entire body felt like it was compressed under a large pile of stones.

“You can do it,” the woman assured in French.

“How long until she responds?” a man asked. His tone was commanding, arrogant, as though his words mattered more than anything else. His voice. It wasn’t gentle or caring but remained reassuring, shoving away more of the numbness.

“She’s waking, Monsieur De Villier. Give it time.”

The man grunted deep within his throat, the sound as grave as his voice.

“Come on, retry. Move your fingers. That’s it,” the woman said gently.

I slipped my fingers over the silky bedsheets. My breathing echoed in my head. My ears rang, and my body felt immeasurably heavy, but everything seemed clearer.

My mouth was dry and powdery, just like my throat I tried to clear. I could hear. I could smell. Both were a relief. I still couldn’t see.

Measured footsteps tapped about the room.

Something squeaked, followed by a soft clack—a door closing perhaps?

Someone had left the room. The footsteps were swallowed up.

The man from earlier spoke in the distance, but his hardhanded words were muffled and fading, even though his voice remained sharp.

He was the one who left. Why? Was he coming back?

I tried lifting my eyelids. I needed to see. They resisted, as if weights were clamped over them.

“Once more. Try with your other hand this time,” the lady repeated. “Good, I’m going to sit you up.”

The bed hummed as it contorted and folded my body. I grunted on a wince with the shift. My neck protested, my head threatening to buckle forward.

“No more than that, I think. Sitting up will do you some good. You’ve been unconscious for the better part of twenty days with intermittent periods of alertness during the worst of the withdrawals.

Although the drugs are out of your system, it’s possible you’ll still feel some lingering effects.

Perhaps some insomnia or restlessness. Even some soreness, not to be confused with symptoms of muscle atrophy.

Do not be surprised if you find it difficult to move or put weight on your limbs for the next few days. Do you know where you are?”

Drugs? What drugs?

“No,” I croaked with a slight shake of my head. I winced from the sudden ache shooting from my temple down into my ear and lower to my neck.

“What month is it?”

I knew my months, even in French, the words crisp and clear in my head, but I didn’t know which one we were in. Why didn’t I know that? Shouldn’t I know that? I had to. No matter how hard I thought on it, it refused to come to me. I sucked in quick breaths. The beeping at my bedside accelerated.

“Breathe.” A thin hand rubbed against my shoulders. “In, out. In…”

What month was it? Think. Think. Come on.

There were no heaters whirring, no AC churning.

Couldn’t be summer or the dead of winter then, could it?

But how did I know that when everything else was a creeping void except for random blurry images flitting around in the back of my head?

The answer was there. The word was right there, yet not. Why couldn’t I remember?

Another click, squeak, and clack, then footsteps were on the approach, pulling my attention.

My head lolled toward the sounds, wincing from the ache.

Not that I saw past the fuzz in my head.

A woodsy scented blend of smoked sandalwood and plums tickled my nose.

The manly smell was soothing and tantalizing. I leaned closer to its comfort.

“So, the month?” the woman repeated patiently.

“No,” I answered softly, then licked my dry lips. “Where…am I?”

“An estate near Saint-Tropez,” the woman replied gently.

I tried to think about where that was. Black nothing was all I got. And a headache.

“I don’t…”

“That’s alright. Do you remember what happened?”

“I…the boat.”

“Yes. You came in with quite a variety of problems. You had a mild brain contusion, a non-penetrating gunshot wound to the abdomen, and your body was in hypovolemic shock from dehydration. With your other injuries, your body had its work cut out for it.”

It wasn’t really new information. I had assessed most of it myself while floating out at sea, yet, said by someone else, it was too much, too soon.

A cup was shoved into my hands, jangling whatever was inside. I hissed from the sudden ache in my wrist. Cold seeped from the plastic container.

“Ice chips,” came that stern voice as if he hated giving me anything at all.

“Thank you,” I gritted out. My voice was hoarse and dry. Weak. Something I shouldn’t be, something I knew people took advantage of. How I knew that, I had no clue. But something in the back of my head was screaming for caution.

Whoever these people were, they had pulled me from the water and treated me—I had been dying, I was aware of that much—so they deserved my thanks despite my weakness.

Just reaching for the cup took immense effort. My arm shook, and pain shot from my side. I clacked my teeth hard until the jolt passed. The hole in my side, I almost forgot.

Cup in hand and pressed against my chest for support, I lifted my arm to scratch at my eyes and the burning itch in my left one, and to remove whatever weight pressed down on them.

“No,” said the woman. She batted my hand away.

It crumbled limp down to the bed sheets, my whole arm aching with exhaustion from that tiny movement.

I flinched, wondering if another slap was coming. My fist clenched as best it could, ready if needed, no matter how weak I felt, no matter how much these people had helped me.