Page 5 of Inked & Bloodbound
“Where am I?” she croaks, her voice barely audible.
“You’re at the hospital, sweetheart. You’re safe.” I squeeze her hand gently to show her I’m right here. “I’m Nurse Lily. What’s your name?”
“Amber.” She tries to sit up, then immediately slumps back down. “I need… I need to get ready. They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming, hon?”
But she’s already gone, pulled back under the waves of whatever high she’s riding. Lost and floating somewhere in the void.
I’ve been seeing more cases like this lately. Kids coming in with severe anemia, weird puncture wounds, talking like they’re on the run. Always the same color, same empty look in their eyes. The fentanyl epidemic is bad enough without whatever new shit is hitting the streets. We’re barely keeping up.
“Should I get the blood transfusion started?” I ask Dr Chen.
“Yeah. Two units to begin with. And find out if we can call someone to come down. She’s got to have a family somewhere. Maybe they can get her into a treatment program.”
The doctor bustles out of the room, but I stay with her for a little while, checking her chart and vitals until she’s more stable. I can’t help myself when I see someone that young riddled with the misery of addiction. My heart aches for them. All that wasted life and opportunity. It’s as if a malignant force comes along and sucks the light out of them until all that’s left is a desolate husk. I hated watching it happen to my mom, and I still hate it now.
The memory of my mother sends a sudden wave of grief pulsing through me, and I hold the clipboard to my chest to steady myself. I close my eyes and try to get grounded, focusing on the steady beep of Amber’s heart monitor. It’s been almost two decades without her, and even though the grief is constant, the sharp agony of the loss still has the ability to floor me.
It’s always been like this. In between stretches of numbness, some days I’m filled with sadness, other days it’s pure unbridled rage. But it’s always bubbling just below the surface. The curiosity that wars with resentment. The question that never leaves me.
Why did she take her own life and leave me behind?
I don’t believe in fate or any of that woo-woo bullshit, but it feels like the universe is sending me a sign.
A piercing heat flares at the base of my skull and I squeeze my eyes even tighter, breathing in slowly through my nose. Count for four, hold for eight, out for four until it subsides.
Not now, please, not now.
I rub my neck to release the muscles and breathe as steadily as I can. The scans must be wrong. Kate must be wrong. There’s got to be something broken inside me, because when the pain hits like this, it’s like I’m dying.
A low, gurgling noise on the bed cuts through the rhythmic beeping of the machines, and my eyes snap open to find the source. It’s deep and guttural. Like a plughole echoing as water drainsthrough it. All the hairs on my arms stand up as my entire body crackles with animalistic fear.
When I spin around, Amber rises off the bed, her limbs twisted into a sickening tangle beneath her. I run to the bed, but before I can touch her, I stop.
“A-Amber? Honey, can you hear me?” I stammer as I reach for the call button, but my words die in my throat.
Her back arches off the bed with a violence that defies human anatomy, her spine bent at an impossible angle. Her head nearly touching her feet. Her fingers stretch and curl into barbs that grasp and tear through the thin hospital sheets with a sound like ripping silk.
The low gurgling escalates into something inhuman—the screech of metal on metal, of an ancient and hungry thing clawing its way out of her throat.
I slam my hand on the emergency button so hard pain shoots through my wrist. The alarm screams through the room, but it’s nothing compared to the sound pouring from the depths of Amber’s gut. Her limbs twist and jerk like she’s being operated by some sadistic puppeteer, joints bending in directions that should snap bone.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops.
Amber sinks back onto the bed with a gentle fluidity, her spine realigning with soft pops that make my skin crawl. Her breath evens out, and when she turns her head to look at me, her eyes are still completely black. Like someone has poured ink into her skull.
“They’re coming for me,” she whispers, her voice carrying a sinister laugh. “I hope you’re here when they get here.”
A slow, terrible smile spreads across her gray lips.
“You’re their favorite kind…”
Ok,I need some time off.
After Amber’s unexpected, and frankly terrifying, seizure, I’ve decided that’s clearly a sign from the universe to take a break. Myhands are still shaking, and nausea hits me in wave after terrible wave. In all my years working ERs, patching up horrific gunshot wounds and seeing the worst that humanity offers, I’ve seen nothing like that.
Kate’s right. The stress isn’t helping these headaches. When I became a travel nurse, I thought I’d have more flexibility, maybe work less, but lately the back-to-back night shifts have taken their toll on my brain and my body.