Page 12 of The Villain

He didn’t respond right away—he didn’t have to. I could feel the slight burst of tension ripple through him where his hand held mine, and in the pause, I heard his quick inhale. It was quiet—taken through his nose rather than through his mouth. The kind of inhale that would’ve made his nostrils flare.

He didn’t need to verbally respond because my other senses had already picked up on his answer.

“What happened to my eyes?” I probed softly, trying to swallow through the grip of fear around my throat.

There was another pause, and a sensation spread over my skin. Like there’d been a blanket over me this entire time, and for a moment, that blanket was removed.

“Your eyes are fine,” he said, and the warmth over me returned, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on mine. Supportively. “The accident gave you a concussion, and the swelling in your brain has created a temporary blindness.”

Temporary…blindness.

“I can’t see.”I heard my own voice inside my head, bits and pieces of a memory coming back like the ashes of a former flame. “Are you the doctor?”

“No—”

“I am.” A new voice spoke from the other sideof the room, and my head turned on instinct, my stomach bottoming out again when there was nothing to see.

Breathe, Athena.He said it was temporary.

“I’m Dr. Rorik Nilsen, Ms. Holman,” the second voice continued, and it was so different from the first. Deep and calm and doctorly. I imagined his white coat and expressionless face. “You sustained quite a few bumps and bruises, but overall, there was no major damage to any organs or bones, which is good?—”

“Except I’m blind,” I repeated thickly, trying to wrap my head around this new reality.

Blind.

Cold panic seized my chest. I was an artist. Yes, I was just starting out with making my art my business, but I had good opportunities. Several of my paintings had been featured at events in San Francisco. I had a gallery show coming up in a few weeks, and several other opportunities that…my throat tightened. The phrase wasstarvingartist. There was nothing said for ablindartist.

“You have cortical visual impairment due to the traumatic brain injury you sustained in the accident. As your brain heals, I expect your sight, along with your memories, will fully return, but it could take some time and will require you to rest and remain monitored,” he explained succinctly, and then added, “Your eyes themselves are fine, but I’ve bandaged them so you don’t inadvertently do them any damage.”

Translation: Don’t take it off.

“And if it’s not temporary?”

“It will be.” He sounded so sure, it should’ve comforted me more than it did.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“I understand.”I let out a deep breath.“So, I was in an accident—where am I? A hospital or outpatient facility?” I pushedaside the worry about my sight and instead let the other million questions I had rush to the forefront. “Should I call—” I broke off, giving my head a little shake. I didn’t have anyone to call. Not anymore. Not here.

Carmel Cove was supposed to be a fresh start. Well, as fresh of a start as someone could have moving into my childhood home.Thank God, I hadn’t listened to Brandon when he’d demanded I sell it.It was hard enough to move to Sacramento with him and leave my hometown—the place with all the best memories of Mom behind—but when he’d ordered me to sell it, that was the final straw.

Final strawmade me sound stronger than I was. The final straw should’ve been five months into our marriage when he shouted at me in front of a bunch of his work friends because I hadn’t made wings for them the way he liked—legs only.But I’d let that slide, like I’d let a thousand other verbal abuses be downplayed and glossed over. Like I’d talked myself out of thinking for too long about the way he criticized me because it was always little comments…about everything.

The way I cooked. The way I cleaned. The way I picked out his clothes every morning—“Just pick me out a shirt.”But then every shirt I picked was unacceptable.“No, that one is too long. No, I don’t like how the collar is. No, that one is too dark.”He criticized the way I dressed. The way I wore my hair. Always little things—things that seemed so easy to fix and, therefore, so easy to please. But it never worked. As soon as I did what he wanted or asked for, it became the wrong thing.

It wasn’t like that when I met him in college. He’d been there for me when Mom died. Held me. Let me soak through countless shirts with my tears. He’d been a constant at that lowest moment, and that was why it had taken me so long to see the truth of how deceptively abusive he was.

Three years of marriage before I’d finallyasked for a divorce—I fought for it. Used all my savings. Lost everything except Mom’s house and my paintings.

Lost my health insurance.

Oh god…how was I going to pay for this? I’d sold several of my paintings, but not to the tune of a hospital bill.

“When can I be discharged?” Blind and concussed, and I was asking to be put back on the street. I was sure the doctor—Dr. Nilsen—was going to add “crazy” to my diagnosis.

“Discharged?” the rough and tumbled voice croaked.

“I don’t have insurance,” I said firmly, noting that not being able to see their pity-filled reactions made it a whole lot easier to speak the simple truth. “I can’t afford?—”

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