Chapter Sixteen

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Chapter Sixteen


“Abriana, honey, time to wake up,” whispered a familiar voice.

“Huh?” I responded groggily.

“Doctor Porter is here and she wants to take a look at you.”

My eyelashes fluttered open to my mother’s warm smile. Scanning the room, I took in the machines and the bright fluorescent lights secured into the ceiling.

“Do you need help getting up?” asked Doctor Porter.

Stretching my arms above my head, I groaned. “No, I think I can get it.”

Dr. Porter studied my face as I eased into a sitting position.

Why is she looking at me like that?

“Abriana, you’ve been through an awful lot,” said Dr. Porter.

I nodded in agreement as I pulled on a stray thread attached to the blanket covering my body.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Abriana,” said my mother with a concerned look on her face.

Smoothing out the blanket, I looked up at Dr. Porter. “Everything is sore, I’m scared to go to sleep, and I haven’t showered in days.”

Dr. Porter took a step closer. “The soreness should subside soon and you can definitely take a shower once I’m done examining you. Why are you scared to go to sleep?”

Averting my gaze, I mumbled, “I’m afraid someone will take me again.”

“Abriana, we won’t let that happen again,” said my mother.

Dr. Porter continued to study my face. “Abriana, the detectives have released a statement. Easton Pierce is in a coma and he has two police officers outside of his hospital room at all times.”

“Sweetheart,” said my mother reaching for my hand. “He can’t get you.”

My chest began to rise and fall more rapidly. “No, but she can.”

Dr. Porter pressed her lips together, but she didn’t say anything.

My mother squeezed my hand. “The police are looking into it, Bri. They also have someone posted outside your hospital door. You’re safe. I promise.”

Why doesn’t anyone believe me?

I rubbed my face with both hands. Blinking back tears, I looked at Dr. Porter. “Can we please just get this exam over?”

She nodded and walked over to the hospital bed. “Please lay back down,” she instructed.

After several minutes of questions, poking, and prodding, she asked me to sit up. “Abriana, I’m concerned about the cut on your leg. I think it’s best if we give you a tetanus shot and a round of antibiotics.”

“Okay,” I responded.

“How did you get this cut?” asked Dr. Porter, her voice full of caution.

“Easton’s accomplice. She cut me with a knife,” I said with fresh tears in my eyes.

The doctor and my mother exchanged glances.

They don’t believe me. I bit my lip and stared through the small window in the corner on the opposite side of the room. Anger and sadness swelled in my chest.

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