Letting you go [COMPLETE]

Chapter 7

I've been getting requests to keep updating and I have to say that they mean the world. I may not meet them but know they mean a lot. It's amazing to know that people are actually interested in this story and it makes me want to continue it even more.

A special thanks to anyone who's voted or commented. They never cease to make me smile.

@lokie66 you've been with this story from the beginning, supporting it and it amazes me how much you make me want to write this story.

Enjoy the chapter (writing this was my way to procrastinate on my assignments. Lol).

Unedited so expect mistakes.

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Blinking my eyes open, I see dad, standing by the bed, glaring at someone at the door.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” dad snaps.

I feel bad for whoever he’s talking to, because it doesn’t seem like a conversation at all—more of one with dad yelling at the other person. I wonder what they’ve done to deserve it but I know that they do. Dad doesn’t yell for the sake of it. If he’s angry at someone they’ve done something to deserve it.

“ . . . but sir, she—”

“She what?” dad grinds out. “What’s your damn excuse for drugging my daughter?”

“Sir, she was agitated—”

“And that gives you permission to stick a needle in her arm?”

“She was a danger—”

“To who? Your precious reputation,” dad sneers.

“Excuse me? You’re out of line—”

“Out of line?” dad snaps, incredulously. “You were out of line when you stabbed my daughter with a needle into her arm, because she was a danger.”

“Sir, please—”

“Don’t you dare say that word when you put my daughter in danger. She was at risk already and then you decided to make it worse. We aren’t living in the seventeenth century and cannot just stab a child with a needle because you want to. That is my daughter on that bed and if you think for one second that I’m going to let you put her life at risk, I’ll have you fired so fast you won’t see the door as it kicks you out.”

“Dad,” I say—or try to. It comes out as a croak more than anything. I know I have to intervene because if one thing angers dad, it’s someone hurting his family. He just reacts on protective instinct and deals with the consequences after.

“Don’t threaten me—”

Dad just growls right over his words. “I’ll threaten you all I want. The minute you play with my daughter’s life like she’s a puppet on a string, all bets are off.”

Clearing my throat, in hopes my voice will come clearer, I repeat, “Dad?”

Dad’s head whips my way.

“Ally,” he says gently, brows drawn low in worry. “What’s wrong? Did the drug hurt you?” he asks frantically.

I shake my head, touching my arm. The IV drip is in once again and the machine is beeping by my ear, an insistent noise. I barely notice the tubes in my nose since they’re all too familiar.

“How long have I been here?” I ask. It feels like a day but I don’t know how long it’s been. Time isn’t easy to tell in hospitals. During chemo, I can be under for hours and I’ll wake up thinking it’s only been a few minutes. Other times, it feels like days when it’s only an hour.