Page 104 of Making Choices

The room spins.

I suck the inside of my cheek between my teeth and bite down. As my mouth pools with blood, the craving to purge the venom inside me surges in waves. The voice that lives in my head joins it, shouting into the black void that is my future that this isn’t how my life was meant to go. Curling my fingers into fists, I do my best to concentrate on the doctor while the area on my stomach—where the cuts from my latest relapse are still healing—itches to be sliced.

“Here, change into this gown. Remove all your jewellery as well.” Her gaze drops to the necklace I’m wearing, then Dr. Squire hands me a folded piece of light blue material with polka dots on it. Seemingly unaware that I’m on the cusp of freaking out, she points to the door on the other side of the room. “The procedure room can be accessed through there. My nurse and the anaesthetist will let me know when you’re ready.”

As soon as I’m alone, the numbness that’s kept me sane for the past three or so weeks drapes over me like a protective sheet. Autopilot kicks in. It’s a saving grace, keeping me on an even keel as I use the curtained off area to change out of my clothes. Twisting, I tie up the gown, take out my earrings and tug the necklace I’ve worn for years over my head, then with my teeth chewing on the inside of my cheek, I pull open the door and step into the sterile room. The two occupants greet me with calm smiles and warm hands, and they quickly get me situated. While the anaesthetist urges me to lie on my side and fusses around inserting a cannula to attach to the IV and wiping a cold, antiseptic swab over my lower back, the nurse goes over the consent forms. Detached from the proceedings by the shield over my emotions, I manage to answer in the appropriate spots and follow their instructions well enough to find myself without feeling from the waist down and Dr. Squire positioned between my open legs.

“Try to zone out for a little while,” she offers. “Think about pleasant things. It’ll help you relax and hopefully lessen the cramping afterward.”

“Sure,” I mutter. “’Cause it’s as easy as that.”

“It can be.”

Enraged by her flippant attitude, I glare up at the ceiling above me. It has a swirled texture, so I spend the next forty-five minutes making shapes from the pattern. Any time I accidentally become conscious of what’s being done to the lower half of my body, I deliberately block it out. My evasive tactic works so well that I manage to stay locked in my head until I’m wheeled into the central recovery room and the nurse starts to give me a run down on what to expect when I’m sent home.

“Do you have any questions?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“We’ll need to keep an eye on you for half an hour, so let me know if you think of anything.”

“Yep.”

Eventually, the nurse gets the hint and leaves me alone for the duration of my observation period, bar for the two times she comes over to check my blood pressure and temperature. I look the other way when it’s time for the cannula to be removed. Every time the numbness threatens to desert me, I remind myself that I’m allergic to pity and tug my cloak of detachment back into place.

“Dr. Squire said these injections need to be started after you’ve had three normal menstruations.”

The prescription the nurse hands me is hard to read.

I fold it in half and pay it little mind.

“Good luck,” the nurse tells me. The tiny smile she offers is full of sympathy and I can’t help but wonder exactly how much Bebe has told Dr. Squire about my situation. “I know it’s easy for me to say, but it sometimes happens when you decide to concentrate on other things.”

Confusion ripples through me. “Thanks.”

She fusses over me for another few minutes.

Once I’m given the all-clear to get dressed, I gingerly slide off the bed. My legs are a little wobbly, but they cooperate well enough to hold me as I walk back to Dr. Squire’s room. The curtain remains in place, concealing the alcove from prying eyes. My clothes are neatly folded on the bench where I left them with a maternity pad placed on top. It takes a couple of attempts to dress, although the sense of normalcy that fills me when I’m clad in the familiar garments and able to discard the hospital gown is worth the effort. After setting a reminder to fill the prescription in three months, I tuck my phone in my bag. Seated on the bench, my hands shake as I try to push my earrings through the holes in my lobes.

Holding my necklace in my hand, I turn the Venom charm over and over as I try to make myself put it back on. My fingers refuse to cooperate as the dull cramping that’s growing in my midsection reminds me why I’m battling to suppress the sorrow that’s stalking me.

“Cherub?” Slash’s voice interrupts my meltdown. The sound of him, so familiar and comforting, stabs me in the chest. He’s my rock, even if he’s my second choice in this scenario—as mean as that thought may be. “The nurse said you should be ready.”

“I... I...”

My traitorous brain completes the sentence I can’t say out loud.

I want Zeke.

That’s the titanium-reinforced truth.

Every atom of my being is crying out for him... and he’s not here.

By choice.

A hiccup escapes me as the feelings I’ve been trying to avoid bubble to the surface. Dropping the necklace into my handbag, I press the heels of my hands to my burning eyes. The curtain is ripped open, and my wrists are gently grasped. Slash drops to his knees in front of me and slowly pulls my arms down to expose my face. Our gazes meet and I identify the pain in his icy-blue depths as the same as the kind that stalks me.

“Oh, fuck... duch-Cherub, don’t cry,” he croons. “He’s a fuckwit, but you still have me.”

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