The Expansion of the Universe

Fifty-Five | "Really good job."

Liza wasn't sure what changed. One moment, she was drifting in a blank space, devoid of everything, as though she was a third party to even her own thoughts. In the next instant, she was entirely aware that she was not only not dead—she was trapped in a body that didn't seem eager to listen.

She could feel her fingers and her toes, but any attempt to wiggle them failed. She couldn't get her eyes to open, either. Swallowing hurt like a—

Wait. Wait. She couldn't swallow. Not easily, anyway.

What was happening? Had she been asleep? Unconscious?

She'd never felt so groggy after sleeping. She must have been unconscious. Was she in the hospital? She'd been in the hospital, hadn't she? Right?

There was something in her throat, she realized, and she tried again to swallow or cough, but nothing happened.

Now she was becoming frustrated.

What the hell had happened since she fell asleep? Was she not in the hospital, after all?

Oh, good God.

She recalled, suddenly, that the reason she'd fallen asleep—or, rather unconscious—in the first place was because of the ever-charming Carson Pierce and his damn mountain of a partner in crime.

Liza was unable to remember what had happened to the men: Had one or both of them still been capable of dragging her lifeless body out of the condo and snatching her away?

No, that wouldn't make any sense: Didn't they want her dead?

The damn thing in her throat was annoying as hell. She tried again to move, but still nothing.

Shit!

It was only as a voice broke through the haze that she stopped and listened: ". . . got to cough for me, darling. Let's see if I'm right about you being ready to come off this vent."

What?

"Go ahead and try to cough," the voice said again, a little firmer this time.

Liza wasn't sure what was happening, but she tried her best to obey, even though she could barely understand the situation. What she had realized was that the voice was far too kind and feminine to belong to either one of her attackers, and the person also carried a sweet, floral scent that assured Liza that she was not hidden in some dank basement, about to be murdered by Carson Pierce execution-style or some shit.

She was also hoping that coughing would help address the object in her throat, so, doing her best, she reached for what little strength she had and forced out a tiny, pitiful cough. It made the object move in her throat, and she must have grimaced at the feel, because the woman clucked her tongue and said, "Uncomfortable, huh? That cough wasn't too bad. We'll start adjusting the settings on this and you should be able to come off this vent soon, once you're breathing on your own. A little bit longer and we'll get that thing out, so you'll feel better then, alright? I'll go let the doctor know."

Doctor. Okay, sure. At least she knew for certain that she was, indeed, in the hospital and not dead.

Was her mom there? She hoped so. It was too bad she couldn't feel anything—she was also curious about Milo, and Elijah, and even Austin.

But her body was betraying her, and she could feel sleep encroaching at her consciousness once more; she was still too weak to fight it, and so she lost the battle once again.

***

". . . wearing off slowly," a voice entered Liza's ears as she drifted once more to awareness, but she couldn't focus on it closely enough to pick out any distinctive aspects. "Go ahead and take it out. She's fighting it for sure now."

Fighting? What was she supposed to be fighting now? God, she hoped she didn't have to fight anymore; it hadn't gone well the last time.

God, the damned thing in her throat was still there! She made a noise of protest as it rubbed against her throat, but the sound was muffled by the object. In further objection, she tried to move, pleased when—this time—she was able to wiggle her shoulders and head just a little, even as her eyelids refused to open.

Another voice cut through her thoughts, and she was able to determine the characteristics this time. It was gruff, masculine, and rough with age and experience. "Stay still now, Elizabeth. You're at the hospital, in the I-C-U. We're taking the tube out that was helping you breathe, and I know it's uncomfortable. Hold my hands and squeeze, if you want—you won't hurt me."

With his words, she became aware of cold fingers grasping her own—they were unnaturally smooth, and she guessed that the unknown male was wearing gloves. She did as he bade, though, and squeezed as tightly as she could when the tube began to shift in her throat.

As soon as it did, she started gagging and coughing, barely able to hear several different voices telling her she was doing great, and that she just needed to keep coughing so the tube could come out.

It felt like hours, but was likely only minutes when the tube finally came out, leaving her throat feeling sore and fragile, as though the outermost layer of skin had been rubbed raw and then ripped away.

"Excellent work," came another, female voice. "Good job, Elizabeth. Really good job. I know your throat's tender, and you're probably still a little groggy. We had you under some strong sedative medications, but they're starting to wear off, so you'll become more aware of things as they do. For now, take your time and keep resting for as long as you need."

She couldn't manage to open her mouth and reply, so she simply laid still, squeezing the hands in hers once more to let them know that she was listening.

"Atta girl," the man praised her. "It won't come back all at once. May seem a little scary to be so vulnerable, but don't push it; you'll get there, and we'll take care of you, in the meantime. Just focus on making progress."

Okay, seemed simple enough, and she could surely follow that advice. After all, what was she good at, if not making progress on herself, slowly but surely?

Feeling marginally better, she allowed the remaining haze of drugs to lull her back into sleep, where she was truly safe from everything—even her thoughts.

***

A/N:

Poor Liza can't catch a break. :/ Big oof. 

Now, who wants Elijah to pop back in the picture? Show of hands!

*tallies votes, nods, scribbles on notepad*

Me too, me too. 

Hang tight,

A.R.