Page 20 of Dimitri
“Eddie…” That’s the last thing I remember—paying for tickets to a stupid action flick Eddie wanted to see. If the price tag on the flowers wasn’t a jarring enough reminder that we have hardly anything in common, his choice in movies should have been the icing on the cake.
Alas, I’m a sucker for his sweetly intense brown eyes.
Did I fall asleep during the movie? That could explain why my body is aching so much. The new theater complexes aren’t as spacious as the out-of-date one in our hometown, and I couldn’t afford premium tickets, so perhaps I’m kinked up because of the rigidness of the chairs in the theaters?
“Or not,” I mutter to myself when I attempt to ease the throbbing of my temples with a quick swirl of my fingertips. My wrist is cuffed to a steel railing. I’m shackled to a bed like a convict at the start of the movie we watched.
“They said you murdered someone,” whispers a shy, frail voice next to me. “That you cut him up into little pieces because he hurt you.” After switching on the light hanging over her bed, a petite brunette with sunken, blood-stained cheeks and black eyes rolls over to face me. “Is it true? Did you kill him because he did that?”
“Did what?” I ask, truly confused.
My heart pains for her when she leans over to open a drawer next to her hospital bed. Her face isn’t the only thing beaten up, so are her arms and torso.
“Who hurt you?” I ask when she hands me a compact mirror.
She tugs her nightwear in close to her body to hide her many bruises before lowering her eyes to her shoeless feet. “No one. I’m very clumsy. I often fall.”
I want to reply,headfirst into a fist by the looks of it, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m not one to judge. I look just as bad as her, except my cuts and bruises can’t be hidden with makeup. I’d need to grind out the stitches and staples running down my forehead first, and even then, I doubt the world’s highest-rated concealer would help.
The only good to come from my battered and bloody appearance is the knowledge I can stop bleaching my hair. Its natural red coloring doesn’t seem as bad as it did when I was a child. It gives me a unique edge not many women have.
It also may be the only way I can take the focus off the scar running down my forehead.
While licking my lips to soothe their deep cracks, I toss the compact back to the brunette’s side of our room. I’d walk it over to her like she did me, but since I’m cuffed to my bed, I can’t.
With that in mind, I ask, “If I’m so dangerous, why do I have a roommate?”
Her blue eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Umm…”
When she forcefully swallows, the truth smacks into me hard and fast. “We’re not in a standard hospital room, are we?”
She only shakes her head for a second, but it’s long enough for me to deserve the title of a mental patient. I scream like I’m in the process of being murdered while thrashing against the cuffs like I’ll have the strength to break out of them. I don’t. I’m too weak and pathetic for that, but my many pledges that I’m not insane does allow some clarity to form.
“We’re not in a mental hospital,” the brunette assures, pacing back to my side of the room. “We’re in a special wing of a hospital. Aguardedwing.” Her next set of words take her nearly ten seconds to articulate. “It’s where they put criminals awaiting trial.”
“I’m not a criminal…” I stop talking when the first part of our conversation replays in my ears.
‘They said you murdered someone.’
‘That you cut him up into little pieces because he hurt you.’
“Who died?” I’m shocked I can talk with how hard fear is clutching my throat. Surely, I’m dreaming. This can’t be real.
The brunette rushes a spew bag to my side of our room when her reply makes me heave. She didn’t say any random old name. She said my boyfriend’s name—hisfullname. Eduardo Emanuel Cordova.
“I didn’t kill Eddie. I’dneverhurt him,” I blubber out through violent sobs. “I loved him…” My words fall short when the deceit in my tone reaches my ears. I cared for Eddie, but it was nothing close to love.
I raise my watering eyes to the mystery brunette. “What happened?” When she drags over a chair, preparing to settle in for the long haul, I ask a second almost just as important question, “And why am I the only one cuffed?”
Chapter Nine
Roxanne
Who knew straight-up murder rates higher than a measly manslaughter charge? My ex-roommate drove her car headfirst into a cypress tree with her abusive boyfriend in the passenger seat, however she only faced a manslaughter charge. I was ‘allegedly’ rundown by my boyfriend before being run over by him. Then, miraculously, I somehow got myself to his apartment two towns over from where I was left to die to, I quote, “Torture the complainant over a six-hour period.” End quote.
Six. Hours.
That was the hole in my defense that had me transferred from the criminal wing of Erkinsvale Private Hospital to a standard ward. I was found in an ambulance bay by a medic going out to have a cigarette a little after one in the morning. Surveillance footage from my assault proves it occurred just after dusk. Despite wishing I was able to torture Eddie for six hours, it wasn’t possible for me to be in two places at once, hence the reason my charges were dropped.
