Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Using the back of my hand to wipe away my tears, I reach into the bottle to fish out two more pills. I swallow them. Then another two. And another two. I cough those up, though, and have to get up to drink the water the girl brought. And I keep swallowing, digging out two at a time until the bottle is empty.
My heart races, a sick feeling in my stomach at what I’ve done. But what else is there to do? Slowly rot? At least this way, he can’t control it. He can’t decide it.
I let the empty bottle drop to the carpet and walk backward to the bed to lie down. When I roll over, I see my sister’s letters scattered beside me through the haze of tears that are so much a part of my life now. Every day. Every day too many tears. I am so tired of it. I’ve read the letters a hundred times. I can’t think about how she’ll feel when she hears what I did. I can’t bear how confused she'll be. How hurt.
I think of Hazel when she left. How I felt. How there was a time I hated her. I felt betrayed and left behind. It’s what I’ll do to Eva, and I hate myself for it. I don’t want to die, do I?
So I get up and go to the door. I try it, but I know it’s locked. I call out, but no one answers, and I don’t know what I want. I go to the desk, opening the drawers until I find a pen and some of that De La Rosa letterhead. I tear off their family crest, crushing that part and dropping it at my feet, then return to the bed where I lie down again and set the paper beside me.
When I start to write, the pen punctures the paper at the Dear. The aspirin can’t be working that fast, though. This is probably exhaustion. Starvation. I feel dizzy, a different sort of dizzy than usual, so I close my eyes for a minute. But when I open them again, I know it’s been longer than a minute.
I feel sweaty, disoriented, and heavy. I sit up, squinting against the double vision. I swing my legs off the bed, and a wave of nausea hits me so hard, I drop to my hands and knees and vomit before I can even think about trying to make it to the bathroom. Another wave comes, and I throw up some more. After dry heaving, I sit back, one hand on my belly, the other on my forehead, my breathing shallow and labored.
My ears are ringing, and I swear I can hear my own heart beat too fast.
A noise at the door has me turn my head, but when it opens, the room spins, the girl freezing when she sees me, her mouth falling open.
I think I reach out for her and try to say something. The man is inside, the look on his face panicked. The girl screams, and the man calls out for help, but that ringing is too loud. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open, and the last thing I see is the empty bottle of aspirin rolling under the desk.
33
Ivy
I’m not in my bedroom anymore. The smell is different. The sounds. The light. I lie still and listen and try to remember. Something tugs at my arm, but when I try to pull away, I can’t, and the first thing I think is I’m back in that cellar.
Panic grips me.
“It’s all right,” a woman says. “Shh. Nothing to worry about, love.” She has an English accent. “There you go. Just relax.”
I try to open my eyes, but the lids are too heavy, and a moment later, I’m gone again. The light is different when I next wake to the sound of men’s voices talking quietly.
“Dehydration in addition. She vomited most of it on her own from the sound of it.”
“Why is she restrained?” This voice I recognize.
Santiago. He’s here. He's come back to me.
I want to call out to him. Touch him.
“She tried to pull the IV out. We’ll remove those as soon as we can.”
IV?
“When will she wake up?”
“When she’s ready. Her body is exhausted. It’s working twice as hard now. Give her time, Santiago.” I hear affection in the voice of this man.
“You’re sure about that?” Santiago asks. He sounds worried.
“Blood tests don’t lie.”
I hear him exhale. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Doctor.
I realize what that smell is. Why the light is different. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize it before. I’m at the hospital.
A door opens and closes, and someone moves, footsteps coming closer. I smell his aftershave over the antiseptic, and despite all that’s happened and all that he’s done to me, it’s a comfort.