Page 7 of Savage Saint
This isn’t my body. It feels like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s skin, someone else’s pain. The bruises, the cuts—they belong to someone who’s fought, someone who’s been hurt. I try to reconcile this with the blank slate in my head, but it doesn’t fit. Nothing does.
My hand reaches up, trembling fingers brushing against the plastic tube forced into my mouth. I can feel the pressure of it inside me, choking, invading.
Oh, hell no.
I don’t think. I can’t think. My body takes over, desperate to be rid of this thing. I grip the tube and pull, feeling it scrape and burn against the rawness inside my throat, every inch dragging up and up until finally, it’s out, leaving me gagging and heaving for air. The sound that escapes me is guttural, raw and broken, somewhere between a death rattle and an exorcism. Very attractive.
As soon as my lungs fill with oxygen, I struggle to sit up, pain ricocheting in my body. The ache is everywhere. Deep in my ribs, sharp in my wrists, burning on my hip. My skin feels foreign, stretched taut and hypersensitive, every brush of the hospital gown sending shocks through my nerves.
Finally adjusted to the brightness of the lights, I let my gaze roam around, taking in the hospital room around me. To my left, there’s a small table, a plastic jug filled with water atop it and a couple of doors, one with a glass pane leading out to the waiting area, no doubt. Machines line the left side of the bed, blinking incomprehensive numbers. And in front, there’s the large window covered with light vertical blinds pushed to one side.
I look down at my body, the thin sheet covering me, and notice the bandages, cuts, and bruises for the first time. The bruises are a mosaic of purple, blue, and sickly yellow, blooming across my arms and legs like grotesque flowers. My wrists are raw, red with scabs and chafed skin, as though I’ve fought against restraints until the flesh broke.
Every movement causes a throbbing pain to bloom within my body, no matter how careful I am. The heart monitor speeds up in the background as I try to comprehend what could have caused the injuries, realising I can’t remember anything from before the time I woke up in this room. Not where I was. Not what happened. Not even my name.
My name. How do I not know my name? That’s the most basic thing. It’s who I am. I press my hands against my temples, willing something, anything to surface but it’s no use, Nothing comes, except the panic that has firmly rooted itself in my bones.
The void in my head is worse than the pain, worse than the panic. It’s like I’ve been erased, my memories wiped clean, leaving behind nothing but questions.
I shift, and the burning on my hip flares up, reaching a new threshold. I tug the hospital gown to the side and freeze. There on my hip is something new. Something that should not be there. A brand, blackened and raw, the burned lines jagged and ugly. My breath catches as I trace the shape with my eyes. It’s a letter—an N. What the fuck?
“No,” I whisper, the word breaking on my lips. This wasn’t here before. Right? I’d know if it was. Tears of anger blur my vision, as I clench my fists to stop them from trembling. What did they do to me? Why?
I press my index finger to one of the burnt lines.
Instant regret. Pain flares, sharp and searing, like my entire nervous system just called a meeting to scream at me. The room tilts. Flashes of memory slam into me out of nowhere.
Dark room. Being held down.
A burning iron cattle brand being lowered to my hip.
The scent of burned flesh.
Heaving, I clench the sheet tighter as the memory dissipates, my fingers trembling with the effort. They feel weak, foreign, in their unsteady grip, and I hate it, hate the vulnerability, the helplessness. A lump rises in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I push it down. I can’t afford to fall apart. Not now.Not ever.
I can panic later. Right now? I need to get the hell out of here.
I look around, my gaze scanning the room, looking for a lifeline. I need clothes, shoes. Anything that will help me sneak out of here unnoticed. On shaky legs, I get out of bed, testing my weight first before fully standing up. The floor is cold under my bare feet, the chill biting into my skin, but I welcome the sensation—it’s grounding and lets me focus on something other than the pain.
As I take my first step away, voices drift in through the door. The muffled tones are low and masculine, too far away to make out the words, but close enough to hear the exchange is heated. The sound sends shivers down my spine, my intuition screaming at me to move, hide, dosomething.
The hair at the back of my neck stands as I realise the voices draw closer. Heart hammering in my chest, I try not to let the panic overwhelm me, but it’s a losing battle.
On instinct, I take a step back, the back of my legs hitting the bed, startling me even further. My breath hitches, the sharp inhale burning my raw throat. Every nerve in my body is on high alert, my senses heightened as I look for an escape route, my eyes settling on the window.
If I could only remember who I am, or what I’m doing here. I clench my eyes shut, willing my brain to cooperate, bring back more memories, but all I see is black. No more memories, nothing that can give me an indication on how to proceed. Just a feeling of dark sorrow and pain. And that’s enough to spear me into action. I rush to the window, but in my haste, I forget that I’m connected to the machines. The sharp pull of wires tears at my skin, followed by a metallic clang, as the drip stand topples over. The sound echoes in the quiet room, louder than anything I’ve heard before, making my heart jump into my throat.
Without thinking, I rip the cannula out of my hand and run for the window. The heart monitor screams with its long high-pitched warning. Any second, they’ll rush into the room now. Get me. Hurt me. I know it.
Flashes of a new memory hit me—feet pounding on the pavement, my heart beating out of my chest as I run for my life, the sound of shouts and footsteps closing in behind me. My heart races as though I’m reliving it, the fear almost paralysing. But I don’t stop. Can’t stop.
I tear open the window and climb over the sill. The fear in the memory is blinding, but there’s determination there too. This gives me the strength to step on the ledge and look down.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking the three stories down and the blood gushing from my hand where the cannula was, droplets hitting the ledge and smearing as I steady myself. A wave of dizziness crashes into me, my vision tilting as the world spins. I’m not worried though, if I fall at leasttheywon’t get me.
Strong arms wrap around my middle, yanking me back into the room. I fight, twisting and kicking, but it’s no use. The grip is like iron, unyielding, and my struggle only makes my body scream in protest.
A scent of woods and citrus surrounds me, calming me despite my panic. It’s annoying how it soothes me, lulling me into a false sense of security. My brain vaguely registers the familiarity of the smell, but it’s just out of reach.
