Page 77 of The Hitch
Bea
The Heir
Chapter 1 - Melody
Muffled speech, laughter, shouts, and whispers float through the air. Everything is… bleary. Hazy. Nothing feels real. The thin mattress below me is fake. The scratchy jumpsuit I keep bleeding through is fake. The fluorescent lights blasting my eyes are, thankfully, fake.
This is Hell. I died, and I went to Hell, I'm pretty sure.
"Get up, Crawford!" Someone—I don't know who—kicks the edge of my bed. It doesn't matter. None of this matters. "You have a visitor."
Okay, that matters. You don't get visitors in Hell. Unless the Devil has some new work-study program all the religions aren't privy to?
With a heavy groan, I slide out of bed and manage to stay vertical. Mostly. The wall is doing a lot of heavy lifting. It should, considering it seems to be painted cinderblock. That's supposed to be sturdy as hell. I smile to myself—I'm funny, even when I'm dead. That has to count for something.
I bet whoever invented fluorescent lighting is stuck in Hell with me. I can hear the electrical buzz of the lights as I slide down a long hallway. The person walking with me opens a door at the end and ushers me through. Metal tables with attached benches fill the room. Huh. Hell has visitation hours.
Someone who looks an awful lot like my husband waits patiently at a table until he sees me. He leaps up and sprints over, ignoring the yells of the guard. I flinch as his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.
"Oh, Melody, my sweetest love—I missed you so much, I missed you, I love you, I'm going to get you out of here," he babbles in my ear, and I weakly lift my arms to hug him back.
He loves me?
"My husband can visit me in Hell?" I mumble into his suit jacket, inhaling the woodsy scent of his cologne. It smells like him. It feels like him. "And he loves me?"
"Your husband can do a lot of things, Mrs. Lyons," another voice pipes up. A rather well-dressed middle-aged man extends his hand to me. "Edward Vetter, attorney at law. No relation."
"No relation?" I ask, plopping onto the metal bench. No relation to who? The Devil? Hell is weird.
"Doesn't matter, love. We're here to get you out," the Dante look-alike says with resolve. God, he looks so much like him. Even down to the adorable spattering of freckles across his face. Every single detail is exactly perfect. But it can't be him.
"Out?" I echo, looking down at my lap. More blood. More blood stains the khaki scrubs I'm wearing, never drying, always dark and red.
"What—Melody!" Not-Dante exclaims. "Are you hurt? Why are you bleeding?"
"Ella… kicked me," I mumble. "Hurts. I'm so tired. And cold. But I can't stop sweating."
"Kicked you? Why would that… Melody, look at me. Focus on me." Not-Dante grabs my cheeks and forces me to look at him. He's so beautiful. Just like my Dante. "Why would Ella kicking you make you bleed from between your legs?"
"Don't you remember? I was pregnant," I whisper, then my eyes open wide. "Shit. You didn't know—I was going to tell you, but—"
All hell breaks loose. Not-Dante punches a guard, the lawyer—no relation—yanks on his sleeve and yells something at him. Everyone is yelling, and everything is so much, too much—it's all too much, and I'm so fucking tired. Not-Dante yells something about a hospital. The uniformed guard yells something back, but I don't care.
The cold metal of the table presses against my cheek, and I can't get up. I can't push back. Something is holding me down. Someone is holding me down? Why? I didn't do anything; not-Dante did it.
A piercing alarm blares through the air and rattles my bones. My teeth feel like they're going to vibrate out of my skull. The pressure on my shoulders pushes me down, down, down into the cold and dark.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
My eyes are so itchy, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like I haven't had a drink in a thousand years. Like I've been passed out for a century, maybe. I try to reach up and rubthe sleep from my eyes, but something cold digs into my wrist. The clatter of metal on plastic makes my head throb in pain.
"Don't try to move, honey. You're in the hospital," a kind voice whispers softly in my ear. "Do you know what day it is?"
"Today?" I guess and try to rub my eyes again. But, again, something stops me. Cracking open one eye, I see I'm chained to a gurney. Or a regular hospital bed. I don't really know the difference, but what I do know is that I'm handcuffed to medical equipment. That can't be good.
"Technically correct, but not the answer I'm looking for. Can you look at me?" A soft, warm hand gently pats my shoulder, and I swing my head around.
A woman about my age in bright pink scrubs smiles down at me. Her hair looks nice. She's got it swept back in a messy bun, but it looks purposeful. "Hi, sweetie. I'm Bridget, your nurse for the next six hours."
