Page 46 of Misery

My knees hit the tile hard.

The impact shoots pain up my legs, but I barely feel it.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't?—

The room tilts, spinning like a carnival ride.

My chest is too tight, like someone's sitting on it.

Heart hammering so hard it might crack ribs from the inside.

This is how I die.

Not from Los Coyotes but from my own body betraying me.

From memories that have teeth and claws and won't stay buried.

I'm back there. Kitchen floor. Linoleum cold against my cheek. Blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue.

Hands tearing at clothes. The sound of fabric ripping. Weight crushing me. Can't move. Can't scream. Can't?—

The door crashes open.

"Elfe." Oskar's voice cuts through the panic like a blade through fog.

He's on his knees beside me before I can process he's here.

The tile protests under his weight.

He must have heard me fall. Heard something.

His presence fills the small bathroom, making it feel safer and more dangerous at once.

"Hey. Look at me." His voice has a command in it, but gentle. Like coaxing a wild animal.

Can't. Can't look. Can't see. Everything's blurry. Tears or panic or both turning the world into watercolors.

"Count with me." His voice is steady. Calm. Like he's done this before. No panic in him at finding me broken on the bathroom floor. "Five things you can see."

I force my eyes to focus through the tears. "The... the tile. White tile. Has a crack in the corner."

"Good. What else?"

"Your hands." They're on my shoulders. Grounding. Not restraining. Important difference. His knuckles still have faint bruises from last night's violence. "The cabinet. It's oak. The... the towel on the rack. Blue. The shower curtain with those stupid fish on it."

"Four things you can touch."

I reach out blindly and find his arm first. Solid. Real. Warm through his shirt. "You. The floor. It's cold. My..." I touch my own chest, feel my racing heart. "My necklace. The wall behind me."

"Three things you can hear."

"Your voice." It's the loudest thing. The most real. An anchor in the storm. "The fan. Someone's TV through the walls—sounds like a game show."

"Two things you can smell."

"Your cologne." Pine and leather and something wild underneath. "Shampoo. From earlier. Coconut."

"One thing you can taste."