Page 174 of Captive Ruin

He has a damp washcloth in his other hand.

“Thanks,” I say weakly, wiping my mouth.

This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had. I can hardly lift my arms. There’s a band-aid over the back of my hand. My cheek aches, and when I touch it, it feels bruised.

“Did you… slap me?”

“Yes, I did,” he says miserably. “I’m so sorry.”

Oh, Jesus fuck.

Vicky. The pills, the red wine. Van Wyk finding me, screaming my name.

What have I done?

I’m alive, and still trapped. I tried; I failed.

Tears fill my eyes as despair saps my will. My shoulders sag, my arms trembling as I lean on the goddamn toilet.

No escape, just like he’s always said.

What should I be feeling? Relief to be alive? There’s none of that. I feel… robbed. Cheated.

My anger swells, directed at him, and I draw on it for strength.

“Why didn’t you let me die?” It comes out harsh, but I don’t care.

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth turns down, his eyes haunted and filling with tears.

My question sits in the air like the smell of my vomit, and flushing the toilet doesn’t make it go away. I stand up, legs shaky, and he’s there immediately, picking me up again, carrying me back to the bed.

I don’t want him touching me, but I can’t fight. I never could.

He pauses with me in his arms. “Do you want a shower?”

I do, but I can barely stand. “Later.”

“Of course.”

No argument. No forcing me. Immediate acquiescence.

He tucks me into bed and slumps down into his chair.

“What time is it?” I sigh.

He pulls out his phone. “Twenty after four.”

The blackout blinds are down over the windows, but there’s not even a glimmer of light around them. It’s the middle of the night, not the afternoon.

Sixteen hours since Vicky visited and I took those pills.

Sixteen hours of him sitting beside my bed?

That’s when I notice my surroundings. An ECG or something, turned off now. An oxygen cylinder on the dresser. A saline drip, hanging empty.

Shit.

Shame saps my anger. He’s had a doctor here, and I can only imagine who else. Anna? Nat? Bastien?