When Opposites Collide Boxset

by Kathy Coopmans

  Does he think I’m that stupid? This is my reality? Private donor, my ass. It’s him. Surgeries won’t change my life. I have nothing. This doctor is a savior trying to fix me to make himself look good. I know how they are. These rich fuckers who claim to be saints are nothing but self-centered commoners. The same as me. Except, they take advantage. They twist the knife, and they expose their true colors one way or another.

  It takes me several long moments to soak everything in while the doctor talks about plastic surgery on my nipple, dental work, and he goes on and on about the changes, the opportunities, and the lies this could do for me.

  Finally, he holds out a paper attached to a clipboard with hopeful eyes shining down on me.

  “If you agree to have all this work done here at Mercy Hospital by some of the best surgeons in the area, then you’ll just need to sign this consent form. We’ve run extensive tests on you as well. All your blood work has come back clean, clearing you of an STDs, AIDS, and any other complications. You’ve been given nourishments through this IV here.” He points, then perches on the side of my bed, not pushing the topic aggressively. He’s hopeful, though; I can hear it in his voice.

  “I can’t even begin to comprehend how confused you are right now, Amelia. You’ve been through an unthinkable torture. The silver lining of it all is, there is help out there, and that is what I want to offer you. After your surgeries, when you’ve healed enough, I have a spot secured at the Peaceful Palm treatment program. This is your chance for a new life.”

  A new life? Where the fuck does he think I’ll go after I’m all fixed up? Right back where he found me, that’s where.

  I hate him.

  He scrubs his hands over his face then peers down at me with a contemplated expression. I’m not sure if what’s coming next will be a good thing or bad. I’m still reeling from everything else he’s told me. Liars. All doctors are. Every one of them.

  “I’m blurring professional lines here, Amelia. Invested way too much with helping you. Can’t explain it, and the only thing I would change is that you and I would have met before this happened. But here’s the bottom line. There’s this powerful hunger deep inside me to help you. If I could just wave a wand and fix you, I’d do it. You deserve more than that alleyway.”

  And there it is. The truth. He wants to parade me around. The poor white trash who was picked up beaten to death right next to a dumpster.

  “Look what Doctor-do-good, did.” “Oh, isn’t she lovely.” “Bless you, doctor.” Fuck him. I didn’t ask for his help.

  I reach for his watch again, gripping it tightly. The feeling underneath my fingertips surges a desire within me for a hit so high to make everything go numb. He wants to help me and is opening himself up to me. He’s so full of shit it reeks over the top of the pungent antiseptic in this hospital.

  I’m going to ruin him. I’ll get out of this bed, get close to him, and then take him for every penny he has. I’d be set up to run, find a new town, and a new dealer.

  Hell, maybe I’ll become one myself.

  I slowly nod my head telling him I’m in. He helps me grip the pen as I scrawl my name out on each highlighted line. A name I haven’t written in years.

  The longer I’m in a conscious state, the more powerful the urge to use develops, and this gorgeous man is my ticket.

  It doesn’t matter what he says or does. Or how he makes my brain want to bend to her omission. No one. Not anyone in this world dishes out acts of kindness for simply nothing at all. He wants to use me. Well, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome with the sentimental eyes and the smell of success, you will never change me. My life was altered the minute two men touched me when I was too young to understand.

  I’ll get what I need. I’ll go to this rehab, and when I come out, I’ll fuck him over before he gets the chance to fuck me himself.

  32

  Amelia

  Forty-Five Days into Rehab

  What a sick and twisted fucking joke my life is. Bits of memories from the night Ricky nearly killed me drift in and out of my semi-conscious mind.

  The handsome doctor and his promise of bullshit are sketchy, but it to flutters like a lonesome butterfly about to die.

  It’s the wicked punch line to the joke controlling my surroundings.

  The ting of the plastic silverware scraping across plates, bowls, and cups in the dining area irritate the fuck out of me. My skin itches, it crawls and burns daily. Nightly. I want out of here. I need to be high.

  God, how I wish this knife in my hand were sharp, pointed, and those tiny little segregated jags my fingers are scraping across would slice my skin.

  One second, the pain inside my crawling skin is too much, the next it’s not.

  I’m going to fucking die in this place.

  These pathetic people drinking the Kool-Aid of a promise spoken that everything will be just fine when leaving their treatment are crazy. All so optimistic and energetic about their recovery, and it just makes me so angry. I want to stand up and tell them all ‘Good luck’. That the majority of them are just like me. You’ll be back on the streets, begging, fucking, and degrading yourself within a day after walking out of this place.

  The fucking pills in a cup they serve me at each meal do nothing for my need for a high. I’m drowning, and I really don’t give a shit if the quicksand in my brain suffocates me. Isn’t there anyone in here who can help me get high?

  “Amelia, you need to eat more.”

  I smile at him, tamping down the urge to flip him the bird, dump my tray, and walk down to my room.

  Ronan McDaniels, my therapist. Old enough to be my father. Yet wise enough to stare me down. To try and intimidate me. It isn’t going to happen. I’ll never allow it.

  He’s kind and caring to put up with all the shit I dish at him. Over countless sessions, with him talking and me pretending to listen, we’ve made no headway at all. The fucker is determined to crack the safe around my skull. To try and get into my head. Well, he should know by now there isn’t room for him there. There’s barely enough room for the scattered thoughts that climb out of every crevice in my mind.

  They haunt me, tempt me, and beg me to scratch the flesh off my skin.

  I’m dying in here.

  I glare at him. He glares at me.

  “Fuck you,” I say, stand without touching my food, and leave the unwelcome noise and faces that are clanking around me.

  Stomping like a spoiled child to my room, I walk straight to the mirror covered in a plastic film looking at my reflection. I laugh so loud from not only my scary reflection but everything surrounding me in this place. There are no sharp objects anywhere. Not even the dressers have screws to hold on the knobs that were once there. No towel hangers. No toilet paper holders. And good luck with trying to break a window, because there aren’t any in my room.

  I stop laughing and gaze at myself. It makes my stomach somersault with a torrid assault of sickness. I look so much like her. The one who was weak and allowed her body to be tortured. It’s the Amelia who once loved painting, basketball, and believed in life.

  “I hate you, Amelia Moore,” I whisper.

  My skin begins to crawl, everything rapidly spirals out of control, and I just want it all to stop. Raising both hands to my face, I sink my nails into the tender, healthy flesh at the top of my cheeks. Slowly, I drag my nails down my face, leaving torn flesh and rivers of streaming blood behind. This makes me smile at the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are full of hope, while her mind is full of hatred.

  “There, you dumb bitch. That’s more like it.”

  The lower I go, the further I sink my nails into my skin, causing as much damage as possible. It’s the opposite effect of numbing my body, but it takes the remnants of the old Amelia away. I hate her.

  There’s a knock on the doorframe quickly followed by Ronan’s appearance. There’s no such thing as doors in this shithole. It’s a damn good thing I can’t stand to be behind one, or I’d lock them all out.
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  “Amelia, it’s time…”

  His words fall from his lips when he makes eye contact with me from behind. I don’t turn to face him. He’s standing behind me going pale as a ghost. I’ll give it to the man; he recovers swiftly on his feet.

  “Let’s have our session in here instead of in my office.” He calmly pulls out the only plastic chair in my room and takes a seat near the table next to my bed. There isn’t even a damn lamp in this place. No light sockets, either. It’s a pity. Peaceful, my fucked-up ass. It’s hell.

  I don’t move a muscle, enjoying the feeling of the last bits of blood dribbling down my face. Amelia turning ugly. It’s a beautiful sight.

  “Do you feel better?” Ronan asks, crossing one leg over the other, relaxing his elbow on top of his thighs, his hand under his chin in a mocking way. I don’t like it.

  His Henley hugs his muscular chest and his khaki pants bunch quite nicely around his crotch. My eyes narrow in on where I imagine his dick would be lying. My clit throbs wondering how big Ronan is and if he’d stretch me out. Would he be a rough fuck or take his time with me?

  I guess I’ve learned one thing over the days in here. I’m addicted to sex. Once, I thought it was just a means to get my next high, but it wasn’t. It was just as big of an addiction as the drugs. I need it, crave it. My face pressed down into a mattress with his hand cupping the back of my neck. Strangers’ fingers digging into my flesh as they run their throbbing cock down the seam of my ass cheeks.

  I’m out of control, and I know it. The humming energy in my pants is overwhelming. I need a fucking high no matter the form. The release to numb my crawling skin and racing mind. Slowly, I turn around to face him.

  “I do feel better. I don’t like seeing her.”

  He nods, seeming happy I actually responded to one of his questions. “Why, Amelia? What has happened to make you hate yourself? There has to be a reason why you don’t want to be healthy?”

  “Let me show you,” I whisper then dart my tongue out to lap up a droplet of blood falling from my face.

  I move slowly with deliberate motions. My hand pressing against my abdomen roaming slowly lower, lower, lower, and lower. Ronan swallows but remains silent. My fingertips sink under the elastic waistband of the sweats I’m wearing then lower, lower, and lower some more.

  Ronan clears his throat. “Amelia.” It’s a warning.

  The pad of my finger connects with my clit, making me instantly wet.

  “Ronan,” I moan his name pushing two fingers inside me while rolling my hips. The pad of my hand deliciously rubbing on my clit.

  “Amelia!” Ronan is up on his feet.

  “Fuck me, Ronan. Come fuck me. Use my body.”

  “Amelia, you’re going to be restrained if you don’t stop.”

  I sink another finger inside me. “Three fingers deep. Bet your cock would feel better.”

  He steps toward the doorway, but I’m too fucking close to a release. I ignore his warning, fucking myself harder and faster. The moans from my lips grow louder and louder until I hear myself growling.

  My fingers aggressively tear my flesh down there, making the impending orgasm to be a powerful one.

  “Last warning, Amelia.”

  I hear Ronan’s voice but ignore him. My fingers go deeper and faster, working with a need so out of control I forget everything for a moment. I’m numb, and blank lost in the sensation. It’s as close to a high to Meth as I can get.

  The lights go bright behind my closed eyelids, the screams leave my lips, and right before the finale, I’m restrained. Hand ripped out of my pants, held down by one of the orderlies, and then the stinging sensation of a needle piercing my skin. Everything is fuzzy then black with no high in sight. Invisibly numb.

  “You feel better now?” Ronan stands next to my bed. His eyes are always soft, understanding in a way that infiltrates my mind.

  “Not really. I hate you, I hate it here, and I don’t give a shit what kind of psycho bullshit you try to pull on me. It’s not going to work. How long was I out this time?” I jerk at the cuffs around my wrists. This is the second time they’ve had to restrain me. The first time I tried to knock a girl out who tried to talk to me. I don’t do friendly.

  “Just overnight.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and uncuffs one side and then the other. I rub the tender spots, push myself up, and stare straight ahead in defeat.

  “You should be thankful I don’t leave you cuffed up longer. You’ve been in here forty-five days, Amelia. Forty-five days you’ve hidden behind the shit you think you need. I’m done wasting my time on you. You don’t want my help, then leave.” Anger burns through me. I want to argue with him, tell him how lonely I feel. How every night I want to take my pillow and suffocate myself.

  “Really? I can walk out the door, and no one will stop me?” My voice is so calm it frightens me.

  “Yes. You’ll be walking out of here naked, no shoes, no clothes. Not a damn thing to protect you from the cops who will toss your ass in jail. If you think this place is hell, well, let me educate you. Jail is a hundred times worse. You’ll be a number without a name. A woman without a past. A nobody. Is that what you really want for yourself? To let the demons inside of you win? To allow your past to dictate your future? You aren’t any different from anyone else in here, Amelia. Including me. You're free to go.” He sidesteps out of my way. The opportunity for me is left wide open, the dirty alleys screaming my name.

  “Are you trying to scare me?” I say, my gaze lifting from the open doorway, while my body wants to sink further into my bed. I’m hopeless. Doesn’t he see that?

  “No. I’m telling you the truth. You really think you can fool me? Think again. I’ve walked in your shoes. I’ve lived on those streets, and the things I’ve done will put the little stunt you tried to pull yesterday to shame. You want to go, then get the hell out of my facility.” Ronan gets inches from my face with the muscles in his jaw ticking and eyes raging with angry fire. “You will be lucky if you end up in jail, Amelia. Damn lucky. Next time, you won’t be saved. You mean absolutely nothing to those men. They will finish the job and enjoy each second of doing it.”

  He turns without looking at me. I feel his disgrace with every fallen footstep I hear him taking.

  The urge to run. To find the release I need so bad tempts me. Except, my legs don’t move. They don’t take advantage of the freedom he’s giving to me. The stay cemented to the end of my bed.

  Was he a drug addict, too? A runaway. Did something drive him the way he’s driving me to steer my life in the right direction? Or is this a ploy of his to get me to open up to him. To share things I don’t want to? I don’t know what to think.

  “You’ve made a mess of your life, Amelia. Go clean it up,” I say.

  Right. If it were that easy, I would. How do I sit here and tell him I was raped, abused as a child in a degrading way?

  My God, I need help. His words about being naked, going to jail, slap me upside my head but are of little consequence. Those words mean absolutely nothing to me when death is rolling around in my head. Do I really want to die? Live the rest of my life peering over my shoulder? Doesn’t he see I’m naked already? That there is nothing left of me to bend. What I need to do is put one foot in front of the other one minute at a time.

  “Good morning, Amelia.” I smile tight at the young woman entering my room. Hiding all my conflicted feelings behind my mask of a face.

  “Good morning, Zoe.” This is the first time I’ve spoken to her. The only one I’ve said words to is my therapist, and none of them have been kind. Her dark ponytail whips around her neck as she turns to face me with wide, startled eyes.

  “Jesus, you scared me,” she says.

  “I think I scared myself. Are you here for my shower?” My shaky hands lift to my face. When the pads of my fingers hit my tattered skin, I want to cry. The dried blood, the scabs over the work, the time, the money that Doctor Hartley paid for. I cringe.

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nbsp; He hasn’t come to see me. All the thoughts, the anger I had toward stealing him blind when I first got here diminished the second I woke up with my arms and legs strapped down. Gauze covering my head and new teeth in my mouth.

  Reality sunk me further into my despair of hell. The flames inside my veins went right through and hit my bones, turning them to ash. I hated myself more for thinking I could use him when he honestly wanted nothing in return from me. Not even to be my friend. That’s okay. I wouldn’t know what to do with a friend. Not really.

  “Yes, and to clip your nails. You can’t keep hurting yourself, Amelia. If you could… well, it’s not my place to say. Come on.”

  “No. What did you mean? If I could what?” I find myself swinging my legs off the bed. Wobbly. Dizzy. I grip the edge to contain myself before I fall. “Wait, please. Give me a minute,” I ask kindly. I have no idea why I’m curious to know what she meant, other than there’s something about her that I like. Not many people risk coming in here to talk to me. Let alone say something other than what I can or can’t do.

  “If you could see yourself the way the rest of us do. Looks aren’t everything, Amelia. But you, you truly are beautiful. It’s the inside that makes you ugly.”

  I halt.

  It’s the outside beauty that was my inevitable demise in life. It attracted them to my bedroom late at night.

  This girl’s words strike me down. On any given day, I would jump at her. Claw her eyes out for speaking to me. Not today.

  Her bright, shiny eyes, her clean scent, and her truth strike me down. I need to get better. For me.

  “There. Now, take a look.” Zoe leads me out of the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror. Her eyes are beaming brightly at me after I stood vulnerably naked in the shower. I’ve showered in front of her and others plenty of times before, but this is the first time I honestly felt stripped down. I’m scared. Alone. And my heart is telling me to heal, while my mind is wanting to get high. It’s the same as the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.