Page 94 of Unbound
"Physically, yes. His heart rate is stabilizing. But Mr. Costas..." The doctor turned to me, her expression grave. "This is what severe psychological trauma looks like. What he experienced—extended electroshock therapy, sensory deprivation, psychological torture—it rewires the brain's response to stress. He may not be able to distinguish between past and present for some time."
I sank into the chair beside his bed, my legs suddenly unable to hold me. "So every time he wakes up, he'll think he's still there?"
"Possibly. For a while. The mind is trying to protect itself, but trauma this severe... it's going to take time. A lot of time."
After she left, I sat in the silence, staring at Jesse's too-still face.The restraints were still there, a cruel necessity that made me want to tear the whole room apart.
This was what they'd done to him. This was what my pursuit had cost.
I thought about that first night in the bar, when I'd seen him turn to leave the bathroom looking terrified and I'd blocked his path. How I'd smirked, thinking it was funny that one of the protesters had been forced to use our space. How I'd taken it as an opportunity, a challenge, a game.
I thought about every time I'd cornered him on campus, enjoyed watching him stutter and flush, mistaken his confusion for attraction instead of recognizing it as the beginning of his world falling apart.
I thought about how proud I'd momentarily felt when he'd finally kissed me, like I'd won some kind of prize. Never considering what it would cost him.
The Jesse who'd kissed me had been whole. Struggling, yes, but whole. The person lying in this bed was broken in ways I couldn't even comprehend, might never be able to comprehend.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered to his unconscious form. "I'm so fucking sorry, Jesse. I did this to you. I lit the match that burned your world down, and I thought it was romantic. I thought I was saving you."
But I hadn't saved him. I'd destroyed him.
The worst part was knowing that somewhere in his chemically quieted mind, he was still trapped in that place. Still feeling their hands on him, their electricity in his body, their voices telling him he was sick, broken, evil. And he might wake up there again and again, unable to escape even in sleep.
I reached out carefully, barely touching his hand where it lay beside the restraint. His skin was warm but lifeless, no response to my touch.
"I'll be here," I promised him, even though he couldn't hear me. "However long it takes, however many times you wake up scared, I'll be here. I'll keep telling you you're safe until you can believe it again."
If you ever can, I thought but didn't say. If there's enough left of you to believe anything again.
The machines beeped steadily, marking time in a room where time had stopped meaning anything. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the walls orange and red.
Somewhere out there, people were going about their normal lives, complaining about homework and jobs and traffic. And here, the person I loved was trapped in a hell I'd helped create, fighting a war in his own mind that I couldn't reach.
I settled back in the chair, prepared for another long night of waiting. Waiting for Jesse to come back to me, if he ever could. Waiting to see if the person I'd fallen in love with had survived what my love had cost him.
The guilt sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and sharp and permanent. This was my burden now, the weight of knowing that every moment of Jesse's suffering was connected to my choice to pursue him. To turn his life into my entertainment.
I deserved to carry it. But Jesse didn't deserve to suffer for it.
And that was the hell I'd built for both of us.
19
ADRIAN
Ihadn't slept properly in four days. I refused to leave the hospital, surviving on awful vending machine coffee and the hospital cafeteria food Diana kept bringing. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like hell—stubble, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes I'd been wearing for two days straight.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. I splashed cold water on my face, but it didn't help. Nothing helped. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jesse collapsing on those steps, felt how light he was when I caught him, like he was already disappearing.
The tears came without warning, ugly and desperate. I pressed my hands against the sink, shoulders shaking, trying to hold myself together. But I couldn't. Not anymore.
"Fuck," I gasped, the word echoing off the tiles. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The door opened behind me. I didn't look up—couldn't face whoever it was seeing me like this.
"Adrian?"
Elijah's voice, quiet and concerned. Of course it was Elijah. He always knew when I was falling apart.
