Page 42 of Unwell
I forced out a scream, begging for Nancy.
Not-Elijah slapped me hard on the cheek, stopping my scream in its tracks.
Sharp pain bit into my thigh before spreading fire through my body. It burned hot and white, licking over my ribs and down my legs.
My fight bled away with its advance. My limbs slackened until they became useless. I tried to scream again, but my mouth sagged open, nothing but silence coming out.
The room spun and black cinders crept in at the edges of my vision.
And then—like nothing had happened—he gentled.
His tight grip loosened, his thrusts becoming longer and more leisurely. The hands that had bruised stroked my hair as he kissed me with heaving breaths. Every touch became reverent.
He gathered a tear on my cheek and wiped it away.
‘Shh, Ginny. It’s okay. It’s me.’
The sour scent eased back. Peppery spice taking its place.
‘You’re doing so well,’ Elijah murmured. ‘Growing my baby. My perfect girl. It’ll be different this time, sweetheart. You’ll see. We’re so close.’
I felt his every touch, even if I couldn’t move toevade them. Or enjoy them. I clung to his words, trying to believe them.
Because the alternative was too terrifying to bear.
‘Elijah,’ I choked.
My Elijah.
Even if sometimes…his touch was too rough. And his voice was too deep. And he smelled too bitter.
TWENTY-FIVE
NANCY
By the end of my shift, I was bone-tired and so ready to get home and wash off the asylum before collapsing into bed.
Robert had taken a rare night-shift, so for once I’d have the house to myself. An evening of peace. No snapping or sulking or laying in bed hoping he’d think I was asleep enough to not press himself between my legs.
Justquiet.
I used that goal to carry me down the corridor, my feet aching from a day of wrapping patients’ wounds and talking them through delusions. The cup of milk I carried warmed my hands in the chill of the halls asevening drew to night. A small kindness for Ginny before I left for the weekend.
‘Nancy, can you stay an extra hour?’ A stressed voice stopped me halfway to Ginny’s room.
My jaw tightened. If only I’d signed straight out rather than heading up to see Ginny one last time. My damn obsession with her would cost me at least one of my three Harvey Wallbangers.
‘There’s a crisis on floor two,’ the nurse called out. ‘We need more hands.’
Always an extra hour. I had little doubt it would be confined to such.
‘Fine,’ I sighed, turning and passing the milk glass over to an orderly with the request to bring it to Ginny.
By the time they released me from duty, my hair clung to my neck with sticky sweat and my feet ached like I’d walked over corridors full of hot coals. I slung my apron into the washing bin and fished Robert’s keys from his coat pocket in the staff cloakroom. The asylum was silent. A rare moment of calm amongst the torrid chaos. Every part of me screamed to get out of the place. But I couldn’t go home for two whole days without checking in on Ginny.
I carried fresh milk through the quiet, my steps the sole noise. I slipped off my shoes, revelling in the cool flooring against my pained feet. Stooping, I picked them up and continued in my stockings to avoid waking anyone.
The door to Ginny’s ward was ajar.
