Page 126 of Breaking Point
“Tylenol?”
She shakes her head. “Stronger. There’s a bottle—” She’s cutoff by a gasp of pain, but clenches her teeth and grits, “White bottle with blue lid. Bedside table.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I’m rushing to the master bedroom I saw earlier, except now that I know where Bella is, my mind is able to process what I’m seeing. This isn’t Bella’s room. I’m not sure why or how I know that for certain—perhaps the styling? But there is no pill bottle with a blue lid. However, there is practically a pharmacy sitting on the dresser across from the bed. And not over-the-counter medicine, this is heavy stuff.
Someone in this house is extremely sick, and I don’t know why I feel so hurt that Bella never told me that she not only lived with someone else but that they’re ill.
Walking toward the other bedroom I clocked earlier, I put all my feelings and thoughts about what I just found out of my mind. Trying to help Bella is my main priority right now.
I enter the room with all the boxes and smell Bella. Her perfume is everywhere, lingering and sticking to the corners of the room. This is just moreher.
It feels odd to be in her safe space without her here, so not lingering more than I absolutely have to, I find the bottle she described and rush back to the bathroom. Bella is still clutching her stomach and groaning in agony.
Dropping the pills beside her, I rub soothing circles up and down her back. “What’s happening, Bella? Should I call an ambulance?”
She shakes her head, talking through clenched teeth out of pain. “No, just bad month.” She inhales sharply. “Will be fine once I take these.”
My frown furrows so deep into my skin I’ll be shocked if it doesn’t stay like that permanently. “Bad month?”
“I have endometriosis,” she says through a gasp. “The medicine was far away and I couldn’t”—she gasps in pain—“move.”
I snatch up the pill bottle I dropped. Following the instructions, I tap out two pills, placing them in her palm before filling up the glass of water with the tap. I’m worried she won’t be able to swallow them with all the grimacing and gasping but she surprisingly gets them down quickly.
I’ve never felt so helpless before.
“Have you been here for two days, Bella?” I ask softly, horrified for the answer.
“I got stuck on the floor after I watched the game and—” She yelps as her body physically flinches, and then she’s lunging for the toilet. The water she’s been sipping comes up, and it isn’t long before she’s dry heaving once again. Because she hasn’t moved from this spot fortwo days,she has nothing else in her system.
She has nothing in her system.Pulling out my phone, I declare, “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No! I’ll be okay, really. All they will do is send me home and tell me to take?—”
She tries to talk through another round of pain but it’s useless, I can see her body physically trying to expel the pain in her body. She’s shaking, breaking out in a cold sweat as another round of heaving ensues.
Shaking my head, I dial 911. “You could be dehydrated, most likely are. I’m not risking it, Bella.”
Lifting the phone to my ear, I quickly relay what’s occurred and how I found Bella, also conveying she has endometriosis, which is the first thing I google once I get off the phone with the dispatcher. I’m shocked I’ve never heard of it before and become even more horrified the further I scroll. By the looks of Bella, they don’t accurately describe just how much pain a woman goes through with this chronic condition.
Pocketing my phone, I decide I can go down a rabbit hole later when it doesn’t feel like she’s dying by my side.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whines. “Now I’ll have to pay for an emergency room bill.”
My head snaps up at that. “Your health is more important than money, and you won’t be paying a dime.” At her side glance, I say, “Let me take care of you, Bella. You need someone to take care of you.”
I’m not sure why my words make her pause, why silver lines her eyes. But it does, and it breaks my heart that such a simple fact has this woman, who is shaking in agony, want to cry.
I can’t take it anymore. It physically pains me.
Gently maneuvering her, I place her head in my lap, rubbing soothing circles along her back. I pull out my phone again to google what could help her as we wait for the ambulance. The pain medication will take twenty minutes to kick in, but I doubt she can keep another dosage down.
I’m scrolling endlessly, feeling like a prick for being on my phone until my thumb pauses.
Heat.
“Do you have a heatpack?”
Her eyes melt at the question. “Please. It’s in the far left kitchen cabinet.”
