VENGEFUL QUEEN

by St. Germain, Lili

  “Who’s here to see me, then?” I ask.

  Elliot clears his throat. “Your uncle. Your cousin, Nathan. Your friend, Jennifer. And your fiancé?” I open my eyes just so I can roll them when he says the word fiancé, scowling at the thought of seeing Joshua.

  “And some guy named Will.”

  My scowl vanishes.

  Will. I haven’t cried at all during this whole ordeal, not since I woke up and started fighting the tube in my throat, but I blink back salt-laden tears when I think about Will.

  “Will is — was — my boyfriend.”

  “I can send them all away, if you want,” he adds. “I can tell them all to get out of here and come back when you’re ready to see them.” He doesn’t comment on the fact that I have a fiancé and a boyfriend, two distinct, differing entities. I wouldn’t know how to explain if he did.

  “I want to see Rome,” I blurt out. Elliot looks away again. Somebody should really tell him he has a horrible poker face.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “No can do. He’s in holding until his hearing tomorrow, and I very much doubt he’ll make bail.”

  “He’ll make bail,” I say quickly. A little too quickly. I must sound pathetic.

  “What I mean is, I don’t think the judge will offer him bail,” Elliot clarifies. “He’ll be deemed a flight risk. And there’s no way your family isn’t putting a word in to the judge to make absolutely certain he doesn’t walk.”

  Desperation floods through me, a torrent of sorrow. I hate being out of control. I loathe being somebody’s victim. But even more than that, I despise the fact that Rome has been cast as the villain in all of this.

  “It wasn’t him,” I say. “He shouldn’t be locked up. He’s as much a victim as me. Don’t you know what they did to him?”

  Elliot’s pale blue eyes search mine. “I know what he did to you,” he replies gravely. “I saw what he did to you.”

  Something in his tone tells me he’s talking about more than just the injuries he’s seen. I think of the tiny flashing light that blinked every time that fucking sicko was recording us.

  “What do you mean, you saw?” I whisper, already suspecting the answer.

  Elliot looks at the ceiling. “He was recording everything and streaming it over a private internet chatroom.”

  Motherfucker.

  “We saw everything. The newspapers, the cutting.” He takes a breath. “The collar.”

  I gasp, causing the little tears inside my throat that the breathing tube made to vibrate painfully. “Then you must know it wasn’t him!” I say. “You would know it wasn’t him at all. Didn’t you see the other guy in there? Didn’t you hear what he was making us do?”

  “Sometimes when people are held captive for a long time, they can start to develop bonds with their—”

  “If you say the word Stockholm, I will fucking end you!” I seethe.

  I’m yelling now, and my throat can’t handle that. I start to cough. Elliot picks up the pitcher of water on the side table beside my hospital bed and pours water into a salmon pink plastic cup, then hands it to me. It’s a nice gesture for somebody who I just threatened to end, but obviously, he doesn’t take me seriously. Nobody listens to crazy, suicidal girls, and in this case, that’s probably a good thing. My shoulders sag. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  Elliot smiles as if we share a secret. “No need to apologize.”

  I drink the water. It tastes odd. Of course it tastes odd. I haven’t had any water that hasn’t been laced with some kind of tranquilizer for - weeks? Months?

  I don’t even know.

  “How long were we in there for?” I ask Elliot. I should know. I had to bleed on that damn newspaper every day, but after the first few times, I stopped counting.

  “I think we can talk about this after you’ve—“

  “How long?” I demand.

  His face falls. He’s the least professional cop I’ve ever spoken to. Usually police officers have a diplomatic way of explaining things, an emotional distance. Not this dude. Every single time he looks at me, I think he’s going to have a fucking breakdown. Every time he talks to me, I get the distinct impression that he would shoot anyone who walked through that door without my blessing. Weirdly, his lack of professionalism doesn’t worry me. The way he looks at me, like he knows me? It’s oddly comforting in a sea of otherwise shitty circumstances. It’s as if he’s got skin in the game. Even though that’s probably because he’s seen a fair amount of my skin on camera.

  “Six weeks,” he says.

  “Huh,” I reply blankly. “It felt like so much longer.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AVERY

  Will enters the room, his face stricken. He’s trying to go for gentle, I can tell, but I’ve known this boy since we were teenagers making out behind the bleachers. This has fucked him up.

  He closes the door behind him, staring at me for a moment. Then he does something completely unexpected. He turns and faces the door, his shoulders hunched, his hand over his mouth. He can’t even look at me.

  “Will,’ I say softly. He continues to face away from me, shaking his head. He puts a hand on the closed hospital room door, bracing himself.

  “Will.” Louder this time. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  He turns around, and it’s sadder than watching my mother’s coffin be carried into the family mausoleum. Sadder than watching the paramedics zip up the body bag as my sister’s blue-tinged face disappeared from view. It’s all the sadness in the universe held in this one expression on Will’s face, an expression that makes him look like a scared little boy.

  I raise a hand to my stiff hair soaked in blood and sweat and God only knows what else. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to go to Dry Bar before you got here.”

  My attempt at humor at least sparks something in him. Recognition. It’s like he finally realizes this broken girl in the hospital bed is actually me. His mouth tugs up at one corner ever-so-slightly, even as his eyes fill with tears.

  “You can come over here,” I say gently. “I’m messed up. I’m not dead.”

  I watch his eyes as he gets closer to the bed. They dart between my face and my bleeding arm. The blood trickling out of the matching pin pricks in my throat. The bite marks. The itchy little sores that won’t heal because I keep scratching them. The bruises that cover me from head to toe. My left eye, swollen half-shut. I’m gaunt and pale, and I’m sure my eyes must look completely fucked up from being in the dark most of these past months.

  He sits in the seat beside my hospital bed and takes my hand. His breath catches when he sees the blood seeping from the busted stitches along my arm.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand as he buries his face in the hospital blankets that cover my thigh. His back shakes as he weeps in my lap. With my free hand, I run my fingers through his light brown hair, the familiarity of another life stirring a deep rift inside me. I wished for this moment. I wanted so desperately to see him. And now that we’re here, he’s like a stranger, a faded photograph. I still love him, somewhere inside myself, but I don’t know how to find that part. I’m vaguely aware of its existence, but not its location. I’m not the girl I was the last time we saw each other. And I don’t know how to find her.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. His hair is so soft. His shampoo smells like musk and spice, and it brings me great comfort in this moment.

  Will finally lifts his head and finds my eyes again. “I thought you were dead,” he says. “You were gone for so long.”

  I smile wryly, acutely aware of the throbbing in my abdomen. Whatever was in the pills Rome and I took? It was dreamy. And it wears off in sharp increments, each stage of numbness wearing off more harrowing than the last.

  “Takes more than that to kill me,” I say, but there’s not a lot of conviction between my words. Because I almost did die.

  “I was so fucking terrible to you that day,” he mutters, his ey
es glassy. “I was so rough, and I hurt you, and—”

  Jesus, I’d almost forgotten that afternoon in the mausoleum. When Normally Restrained Will realized I was going to be marrying Joshua, and he morphed into Angry Hulk Will.

  “I deserved it,” I cut him off. “And you didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.” Except maybe when he made me call myself Daddy’s Little Whore.

  It’s funny, but then I remember my father is in a coma, and probably going to die, and suddenly, the funny is all gone.

  Will looks mortified. “I went crazy, Aves. I don’t know what came over me.”

  I squeeze his hand. “You reacted like anyone would. I blindsided you. I was the asshole in that situation.”

  He bows his head again. I take the quiet moment to drink him in. I still love him. So fucking much. But there’s a chasm between us. I’m not the girl he thinks I am, not anymore. Not after this.

  His clothes are hanging off him, and the black circles under his eyes tell a story of sleepless nights and anxiety-ridden days. Guilt stabs at me. Whoever did this, didn’t just do it to Rome and me. Will suffered. The people who love us all suffered.

  “Will. Hey.” His shoulders shake with silent sobs as he presses his face into the blankets.

  “I’m okay, Will. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He nods, steeling himself as he straightens. His fingers reach for my hand, but he pauses in midair, his eyes skating along my arm, up across my bruised collar bones to the thin threads of blood that seep from my neck. “I want to touch you, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I’m fine,” I insist. “It looks worse than what it is.”

  Concern etches deeper into Will’s expression. He stands, grabbing the medical chart from the end of my bed and flipping it open, then takes his seat again as he reads. “You’re not fine,” he argues. “It says here you’ve got a fractured wrist.” He glances between my hands, and I hold up the one opposite to him. He takes a deep breath, continuing. “A broken eye socket?” I touch my good hand to my left eye, wincing. No wonder my head feels three times its normal size. Who knew an eye socket could break? Not me, but you learn something new every day.

  “Extensive blood loss,” Will reads. “A perforated uterus wall from an IUD being removed incorrectly?!” He looks up at me sharply.

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Attempted removal. Turns out, those things don’t come out easily.”

  “What happened?” Will asks, horrified. I almost open my mouth to tell him, but think better of it. “It sounds worse than it is,” I lie breezily. “Really, I’m fine.”

  He stops reading.

  “Is that it?” I ask. Will shakes his head. “There are three more pages. It says here they still need to do another pelvic exam and a rape kit.”

  His eyes flash with emotion. “Did he — they — Jesus. Were you raped?”

  I take the clipboard from him, gently. “Will,” I say, taking his hand and squeezing it. “One day I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But not today, okay?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Okay?” I say again, sharper this time.

  He nods. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry.”

  We study each other for a beat, as a black mood begins to seep into my relief at getting out of that hellhole. This is the crash after the adrenalin of surviving. Reality is starting to hurt like a motherfucker.

  “You lost weight,” I murmur. Will looks surprised, and I know he’s looking at bony little me after six weeks of near-starvation and hell.

  “You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been having a few too many Happy Meals, young lady.” He offers up a sad smile, and I take it greedily, my own mouth twitching at the sides. There he is. My sarcastic-mouthed Will, always armed with barbs that fly over most people’s heads. Not me. I love his humor. It’s always been able to make me feel better.

  “What can I say?” I shrug. “They ask me if I want to supersize my meal, and I just can’t say no.”

  Will grins. That’s good. Then he puts his face in his hands. Not so good.

  “I’m so sorry, Aves,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper.

  “I did.” He looks up at me again. “I … I lost control that day. The way I acted in the cemetery … It was like I was possessed or something. I was so rough with you. I hurt you. I was out of my mind at the thought of losing you.”

  “Stop torturing yourself. Will, we were two consenting adults having angry break-up sex. It was sad. It was hot. It was the best sex we ever had. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  His shoulders slump with what looks like relief. “All those things I said, about you owing me, and me taking you away? It was just shit I said without thinking. I would never actually hurt you, you know that, right?”

  “Of course I do,” I reply, frowning. “Why? Does someone else think you’ve done something?”

  He chews on his lip, his knee bouncing up and down. He’s agitated. Terrified.

  “The cops think I had something to do with this,” Will finally says, gesturing to me and my litany of injuries.

  “The cops don’t know you, Will. I know you. I know you had nothing to do with any of this. I’ll tell them what happened, and everything will be…”

  Will frowns, sitting straighter. “Aves?”

  Suddenly I’m so, so tired. I can’t remember the word to end that sentence. What’s the damn word? My tongue feels too big for my mouth, like I’m sucking on a big wad of cotton candy that refuses to melt. What’s the word?

  “Everything will be—”

  Machines are beeping like it’s the end of the goddamn world, but it’s getting harder to hear them above the pleasant buzz in my brain. I can see the panic in Will’s chameleon eyes as he runs out into the hallway, shouting for help, but he doesn’t need to worry. I feel — fine. That’s the word. Fine. Better than I have in a while, actually. Everything will be fine. The sharp edge of reality has faded again, and a far away thought comes to me. In the edges of my consciousness, I’m vaguely aware of machines beeping frantically, and this is what the nurse warned me about: Narcan, the drug that reverses the opiate overdose, sometimes wears off faster than the opiates themselves. I’m going to be fine. I’m in a hospital. They’ll pump me full of a fresh dose, and I’ll be fine, but Rome? The cop told me he’s in prison. Is anybody taking care of him? Does anybody care that this exact thing could be happening to him right now? That’s the only thing that keeps me hanging on to the tiny shred of consciousness the drugs afford me, as I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into an endless fucking abyss. I can’t breathe. Can’t form words. I focus on Will’s eyes as a nurse pulls him away. A doctor stabs a fuck-you sized needle deep into my forearm, and I know that’s going to hurt later on. I’ll just add it to the list of my war wounds.

  I feel the cold sting spread through my muscle, seeping into my body like ice-cold lava that burns and freezes all at once.

  Narcan. It’s a fucking miracle drug. I’ve watched paramedics use it on Nathan twice over the years, back when he was putting every cent of his generous Capulet allowance straight into his veins, and it really does just rip you right out of that marshmallow cloud of drugged inertia and deposit you back into reality with a sharpness I can’t accurately describe. I bolt upright in bed, take a giant breath of air, and puke down the front of myself. Lovely.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with my arm, the one that isn’t fucked up, bleeding and in need of fresh stitches.

  Will shakes his head, a relieved expression spreading across his face. The nurse beside me tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and pats my shoulder.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a live one.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AVERY

  “Feet up in the stirrups,” the female doctor says. She is gentle, her voice warm and comforting like maple syrup and warm pancakes. I don’t know why I’m thinking of food
when I look at her — maybe because the adrenalin is starting to wear off, and the almost dying shock waves that have been buzzing inside my stomach have morphed into rabid hunger. I feel like if I don’t get some food soon, I might rip somebody’s shirt off and start eating it to appease my growling stomach.

  The detective from earlier shifts slightly in the seat beside my bed. I don’t know why he has to be here while this is being done, but I sure am happy he’s next to my head and not down where things are happening.

  When I don’t move my feet, the doctor does it for me. She’s wearing plastic gloves, and when she touches my ankle and lifts it to place in a stirrup, those first moments waking up in that hellhole come rushing back. The guy’s hands on me, the way he made a big deal out of taking the gloves off before he cut me and made me bleed.

  I gasp, my entire body starting to shake. Hello darkness, my old friend. I wondered where you’d gone.

  And that’s it. The numb shock I’ve been safely enveloped in whooshes away, replaced by an insidious shivering that overtakes me. One strangled sob escapes my mouth, then two, until I’m sobbing, my hands over my face.

  The doctor takes my foot back out of the stirrup and covers me with a heavy blanket. I don’t know how she knows to do this, but it works. It soothes me. I am a small girl hiding from the world, needing that heaviness to cover me, to help me feel safe. I am like one of those dogs that needs a weighted vest in a thunderstorm. Right now, I feel like I might drift away, become a ghost, leave my body and this place. Suddenly, I can’t bear that I have survived, that I was rescued from that place before I could take my last breath in this world, that I have to now suffer the horror of after. I am unspooling from myself, my soul trying to press the eject button and exit my body, and I don’t know what to do to help me stay tethered to this earth. Because as much as I do want to leave - this building, this bed, this body - I can’t. Rome needs me. I need him.