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Two years ago

I sit on the edge of the bed.

New bed, same situation.

Same blank expression on her beautiful face.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” I whisper to her. I stroke her hair, run my hands down her body.

“Isle of Paradise will be good for her,” her half-brother says at my back.

I met him three months ago, after I transferred her out of the hospital room Artemis Madden was funding. The long-term care unit, she said.

There were vegetables in that unit. Soulless bodies.

That’s not my Lyssa.

Kade found us. The new place I picked was closer to her home, and they had her old records. They had her half-brother on file from an old emergency.

That’s what he said anyway.

My mind keeps breaking. I may as well be locked in this room with her. I lose pieces of time staring out of windows.

Windows are a requirement.

This room has a big window that looks out at the water. It’s pointed toward Sterling Falls, although it’s too far away to see during the day. Maybe at night, the little speckles of city lights would be visible.

She’s supposed to wake up, but it’s been eight years.

I’m fucking spiraling.

“Come on,” Kade says softly.

I wave him off and climb over her. There are nurses waiting to put a feeding tube in. She gagged when the previous hospital removed the one they had inserted. Her whole body lurched, and my heart soared .

But then they said it was just a reflex, like breathing.

Which she does perfectly fine on her own, they added.

They’re going to give her an IV to keep her hydrated, a catheter to empty her bladder, a feeding tube for nutrients.

I hate it all.

I brace my weight on my knees, off to one side, and my forearms on either side of her head. I could stare at her for hours and never be bored.

“Shh,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her ear. “Remember what I told you, Lys? The dark can’t be scary anymore. I’m here with you. We’re free. Any time you’re ready to wake… I’ll be waiting. Just say the word, and I’ll be here.”

I kiss her lips, but she doesn’t kiss me back.

She hasn’t in eight years.

“We’ll visit her soon,” he promises.

I’m sick of promises.

I’m sick of keeping things together.

We’re all a little mad here, aren’t we?

What’s the problem in showing the world?