Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Have I turned to stone?
Am I still even on Earth? I’m sinking…or I’m too drained to move.
I squint harder and try to distinguish shapes, but everything is just fuzzy.
Maybe I’m dreaming. One of those half-awake kind of dreams that’s sleepy and fogged. They’re not my favorite. I like the vivid tapestries of my imagination to overtake my subconscious. Not this cloudy, murky distorted confusion.
In a concerted effort, I fight to wake from this blurry no-good dream. I blink more and concentrate on the harsh lights. My surroundings gradually sharpen into a clearer picture, but the throbbing in my skull doesn’t recede.
My stomach lurches as I take in the beige drapes and ugly matching chair pushed under the window. A TV on the wall plays a rerun of Gilmore Girls on mute. Closest to me, a heart monitor beeps, and cords are attached to me, plugged into hefty machines and IV bags.
What…
Beeping quickens on the machine, and my heart tries to jettison from my body.
This is a hospital room.
I’m in a hospital room.
I’m stuck on the one thought, mentally stepping into superglue. My mouth is so dry, tongue thick and strange. I lick my chapped lips.
“Hey…” Someone speaks gently.
I follow the sound of the soft, soothing voice to the darkened corner of the room. Sitting on a cushioned chair, the man slowly stands and approaches the hospital bed. I squint harder, piecing together his features.
A hoop piercing in his lip, barbells in his brow, a black dangly earring—I think I know him. The tattooed skull and crossbones on the tops of his hands seem familiar, as do the inked swords on his throat and wings on his neck.
Why is his hair brown? “You…dyed your hair,” I croak, my throat raw. Words come out coarse. Is that his natural hair color? Have I seen it before? I swallow, and I skim his black V-neck, black pants. He often wears the same thing, and this familiarity tries to ease me.
I do recognize him.
Farrow. Farrow.
The name washes over me with not enough tranquility. I’m too confused to relax, and I feel like I’ve been in a head-on collision with the Millennium Falcon. My whole body hurts.
He’s filling a plastic cup of water and studying the machines and me. “How are you feeling?”
I can’t even wrap my brain around how to answer. I blink a few more times, hoping to clear more fog. “What…happened?” I rasp and look around for my mom and dad. My brothers and sister. If something bad happened to me, they’d be here, right? Unless…unless…
Dread heavies my stomach.
If they’re not here, it means something bad happened to them. I’m too afraid to pose the question. Beeping goes haywire on the machine, and the sound intensifies the gavel swinging in my head.
“Just take a deep breath,” Farrow says in a comforting voice. It coaxes me out of my jumbled thoughts, but the beeping is escalating my headache.
“Stop,” I plead into a wince.
“It’s your heartbeat,” Farrow tells me, still calm. “Just take a breath.”
I do as he says, and I silently remind myself that all is okay.
Farrow is here.
Farrow is here. Why is he here? I intake a sharper breath. Where’s his dad? Dr. Keene? The questions blip in and out of my brain.
I try to lift myself up, but my bones shriek in protest. I wince and cringe, pain blossoming throughout my body.
“Stay still. I’ll sit you up,” Farrow tells me, coming to my rescue with the bedside remote. “What’s your pain level? From zero being no pain to ten being the worst you’ve ever felt?” Slowly, the bed elevates on its own, and I’m propped in a sitting position.
“Seven, maybe,” I whisper. “It just hurts.”
“What does?”
My whole body. I think I answer him out loud. Maybe I didn’t. I can’t be sure.
He snaps on new gloves, fiddles with the IV. I dizzy watching him move around the room, so I stop tracking his steps.
“Just relax,” he says casually, his voice helping me breathe.
Once he pulls a stool closer to the bed and sits beside me, I fixate on him again. He offers me water from the plastic cup, and I take small sips to soothe my raw throat.
“Can you describe how you’re feeling?” Farrow asks.
“Confused,” I mutter. “My head hurts a lot.”
Farrow nods like that’s understandable. I don’t see how. “You had a traumatic brain injury. You fell and hit your head on the street, on concrete.”
Oh.
I frown. “I don’t remember that,” I say quietly. “I feel fine except for the headache. Can I go home?” I don’t want to be here. I want to see my mom. My dad. Moffy. Xander. Kinney.
My heartbeat accelerates again. Beepbeepbeepbeep. The frantic noise is a violent jackhammer in my brain. I let out a soft groan.
“It’s okay.” Farrow stands up to lower the volume on the machine. My breathing steadies, and I zone in on the mirrored blood-red sparrows on his collarbones. They fly through masts of identical pirate ships. Between them is a half-skull on his sternum.