~Emmalyn~
Was it morbid that being in the hospital felt like home again?
I couldn't quite believe it happened. Again. I thought I was done freaking out and choosing extreme measures. Apparently I couldn't just try to kill myself once. I had to go for a second time.
Honestly, I was scared of myself.
The thick curtains were pulled over the window, but I could tell it was dark outside. The stupid fluorescent lights remained on in my room. They didn't want total darkness. They told me when I was tired they would dim them slightly. I felt like a mental patient in a mental hospital.
But I guessed I kind of was.
My door creaked open slowly. At first I thought it was the nurses-my mom was the only other person I expected to visit and she had already done so-but the presence of the room was different. Familiar, but different.
"What are you doing here?" I mumbled in the quiet of my room. My back was to him but I didn't need to look to see who it was. I just knew. I furrowed deeper into the covers.
"I was going to ask you the same question." The door shut and his boots scraped across the linoleum floor closer to me. I swallowed hard, feeling both parts ashamed and embarrassed that he was witnessing me in this way, so weak and exposed and vulnerable.
"You know. It happens when people think you're insane," I muttered. Rhys sighed and lowered down into the metal chair at my bedside. I didn't want to face him but I figured I could be at least a little civil. After all, he had to have exerted some effort and concern to come out and see me, right?
I rolled over, locking eyes with him. He was dressed in slacks, a white-collared dress shirt, and a loosened tie.
"Would you be insulted if I said you're finally looking better?"
I snorted. "Considering I tried to kill myself, yes."
He winced, and then scrubbed his hands over his face. "Christ, Emma."
I picked at the rough fabric of the pillow. "I know."
He stared thoughtfully at me with his hand covering his mouth. I wondered if he had ever made it to the dance before coming. And then I wondered who told him. Unless my mom had his cell phone number-which would be incredibly creepy-then it couldn't have been her because she was with me the entire time. "I thought you were a druggie."
I lifted an eyebrow, a small smile playing at my lips at the abrupt comment. "Come again?"
His eyes fell to my wrist, wrapped in a neon green hospital bracelet. "You looked just like this guy I used to know. Diego was his name. He would get all ashen and shaky when he couldn't be on a fix." His eyes found mine again. "I thought you were addicted to pills."
I averted my gaze guiltily. "You aren't far from the truth," I whispered.
"You tried to overdose."
"It's not because of what you think," I continued, throat constricting. I was still a bit fragile. And I could feel the crinkled paper of the newspaper article beneath my pillow, evidence of my resolve to admit to my fear. To be open about my demons. I needed to with somebody. Rhys was a start. It was an impulsive decision and I was still going with it.
My muscles clenched when I felt his touch, surprisingly gentle, skim over my arm. He left a trail of goosebumps in his wake, my hairs standing on end. "Can I ask why did you did it?" he asked, voice low.
"That depends."
"On what?"
I took a deep breath. "Can I show you something?"
"Um . . . Yeah, I guess."
"Okay." You can do this. I sat up slowly, reaching underneath and retrieving the article. Without another word I handed it over to him. His eyes scanned it over.
"Yeah, I heard about this in the news. So what?"
I closed my eyes, licking my lips. "Read it."
"Emma I don't-"
"Just read it, please."
He sighed, dragging the chair closer. "Okay." He brought the article nearer to his face, frowning. "This isn't even recent. It's from two years ago."
"I know," I quipped, becoming impatient. "Will you just read it?"
He shook his head. "Fine, fine. Mike Packer, eighteen, of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was arrested today outside his Broadside High School this afternoon." He snorted. "This guy looks like a douche."
"He is," I whispered quietly.
He flicked the article onto my lap. "Did you know him?"
"Sort of." I chewed on my lip. "Before I came here I went to Broadside."
His eyebrows shot up. "Yeah? Like to stick to the past, much?"
He wasn't getting it. I shoved the article at him. "Keep reading," I muttered. "Near the bottom."
Snatching the clip from me, he resumed reading. "Um . . . Okay, here. Packer was taken in on harassment charges and providing for a minor. The victim pled to prosecutors for a longer sentence, stating he-Christ-stating that he raped her . . . Emma, what the hell is this?"
Tears filled my eyes. "Don't you get it?"
He set the paper aside. "Get what? I don't understand what you're saying-are you crying?"
I wiped at my eyes. "Mr. Matthews wants us to get to know each other, so here is me trying, Rhys."
"I still don't-"
"I knew Mike Packer," I interjected. "And he knew me. We went to the same school. There was a reason I moved."
His eyes widened. "Emma . . ."
"I still have nightmares," I stated more quietly. "About him."
Rhys was just staring now, at me, like I had two heads. I hoped I hadn't made a mistake in telling him. I just figured with everything going on, he had a right to know. If something happened, he had the right to know why.
"That girl was me," I continued. I met his gaze with my watery one. "They couldn't gain enough evidence to charge him because they couldn't find the original tapes with him in them, but it happened. Mike Packer, he . . . ."
Raped me.
Humiliated me.
Stole everything from me.
Rhys was frozen, staring blankely at me, like he didn't quite believe my claim. I sat up straighter, angling myself toward him. "Please believe me, Rhys," I begged, because nobody did. Nobody believed the poor girl who they thought just wanted attention and money. "It's why I take the pills," I was quick to explain, hoping maybe that would get a response out of him. "I had to be taken off of them because whenever I'm on one I become addicted and I spiral. It's because of what he did to me." The tears slipped faster down my cheeks.
His eyes searched mine. "Emma . . ."
I gave him my back, ashamed at the truth. Humiliated that such a thing could happen to me and I had been ignorant to their real intentions. "It was so awful, Rhys," I sobbed into my hands, wishing the tears would stop but knowing the wish was futile. "How can somebody do that to another person?"
He was silent behind me. Maybe repulsed; maybe sickened. That was the risk of exposing myself to him, though. I knew that. The thought of him leaving me, of not believing me and refusing to talk to me because of it, made me inexplicable sad.
But then the hospital cot dipped behind me, and a warm hand settled on my arm. Instinctively I leaned toward that touch, unintentionally turning and meeting his brown-eyed gaze. They stared at me with a softness I had not known Rhys Richardson capable of. It did wonders for his hardened edge, made him seem more real and compassionate.
Another tear dripped from my lashes but he caught it with his finger, rubbing it away. His close proximity had my senses on high alert. I could make out more of his tattoo with the way he was leaning. His earring was a small diamond stud. "I believe you, Emma," he whispered.
I sniffed. "What?"
His hand trailed down my cheek and cupped my chin, thumb running across the front. His eyes lingered on my lips before meeting my own. "I believe you."
"But I just told you-"
"I know what you said," he interjected quickly, not wanting to hear me repeat it. "I know what you said."
More tears built up at my unexpected ally. Who knew the last person anyone-including me-would expect to be understanding was the only one who believed me? The only one who wasn't calling me used trash or damaged goods and walking out the door, never to speak with me again?
He was still there.
Maybe Mr. Matthews knew what he was doing after all.
"This isn't the first time," he remarked suddenly. His fingers were still on my face and it was easy to get lost in his heat.
"Isn't the first time what?" I mumbled.
"The first time you tried to overdose."
I went rigid. "Rhys . . ."
"And don't bullshit me about it either, Emma. I've been around this stuff my whole life, too. I know these kinds of cases when I see it."
That thought wrenched at my heart. "You never told me that."
His eyes widened, like he hadn't meant to reveal so much about himself with one little cryptic sentence. "This isn't about me, remember?" he recovered quickly. "You're the one in the hospital."
I huffed. "That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair." He ducked to meet my eyes when I dropped them. "When was the first time, Emma?"
I clenched my hair in my hands. "Don't do this to me."
"Negative, sorry. You had to go and be all stupid and now you're here, and you're going to tell me why. So get to talking."
I glared at him. Only Rhys would call someone in such a fragile state stupid. "You still need work on your communication and empathy skills."
He waved his hand in the air. "It's not that important. But you keep trying to change the subject."
I took a deep breath. "I was sixteen."
He nodded. "Not that long ago. Makes sense."
"What do you mean it makes sense?"
"You're still in that whacky-ass state because of what that dick did to you. If you were recovered and fine and it's only been almost two years, you wouldn't be human."
No therapist had ever quite put it like that. "I guess you're right."
"Of course I'm right."
I rolled my eyes, but I was finding re-telling it wasn't as painstakingly agonizing as I thought it would be. And why did I think it was because of Rhys Richardson?
Who would have known?
"I actually swallowed the pills," I continued. "Not the whole bottle like I planned to this time, just several more than what was appropriate. My mom found me that time, too. I was already going under. The stupid hospital saved me."
He scoffed. "Stupid hospital? Careful, the nurses might hear you. I hear they're the sensitive type."
A smile flickered at the corners of my mouth. "You really know how to ruin a heartfelt confession, don't you?"
"It's a talent of mine."
I shook my head. "I felt like such an idiot, Rhys. I had to deal with all the whispers and the stares and the restricted numbers trying to recruit me for psychological evaluation. It was all too much, so I moved."
He snorted. "And you chose Heart of all places to go?"
"It was where my parents met," I mused softly, smiling. "Where they overcame their demons. Where they fell in love . . . They thought I could find the same." I met his gaze again, to find his brown depths staring intensely at me. "I think they were wrong."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I'm in the hospital," I stated bluntly. My eyes drifted to his neck. "Can I see your tattoo?"
He stiffened. "And you say I know how to ruin a moment?"
I shrugged. "I've been curious about it since I met you . . . So can I see it?"
"You're strange."
"Not strange, just mental. Or at least, that's what the docs like to tell me."
He breathed out a long breath but reached to undo the top three buttons of his dress shirt. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered.
"I know. Considering you first told me the only people who see your tattoo are the ones you get in bed, and I'm completely not your taste, I can't believe it either."
He sent me a droll look. I returned it with a sweet, innocent smile as I grabbed the edge of the silk shirt and gently pushed it to the side. His tattoo was revealed to me inch by inch. It didn't go a whole lot onto his shoulder but dripped down over his right pec. I crossed my legs and faced him on the bed to get a better look. It was what looked like some kind of written language that swirled into this beautiful black design over his shoulder and leaked onto his neck the tiniest bit. It was absolutely breath-taking.
"What is it?" I breathed, scooting closer. I trailed my fingers down the tattoo, heart jarring against my ribs ferociously for a reason unbeknownst to me.
"It's Hebrew," he replied, voice lower and gruffer than I remembered. "It says 'Live or die trying'."
"Wow," I whispered. I placed my palm flat against it, eyes brushing absentmindedly over the rest of his muscled torso. No. My original assessment had been right. He wasn't built like any of the other high school guys I had ever seen. He didn't act so much like them, either. I mean, the sarcasm and nonchalance was still there, but to a certain degree he seemed so much above them. Or acted like it, at least.
"I designed it myself," he added.
I grinned up at him, finding his eyes already resting on me. His jaw was tight, posture tense. "You're brilliant," I admired. "Do you paint?"
He nodded, eying me carefully.
"You have to show me sometime," I demanded eagerly.
"Maybe," he mumbled, circling his fingers around my wrist to push me away. I jumped at his static touch, and maybe he felt it as well, because he froze and stared at our touching skin, too.
"Emma, I brought-oh, my goodness, you didn't tell me you were having friends over!"
I wrenched away from Rhys, blushing fiercely at my mother standing in the doorway with a plastic bag in her hands, no doubt with the dinner I had asked for instead of the crap they served me. Rhys stood and righted his shirt, though I noticed he didn't fasten the buttons.
"Hello, Rhys," my mother greeted, a smile tweaking her lips. "I like your tattoo."
"Thanks," he said.
She breezed over to my bedside, plopping down in the chair and setting the tin of Chinese food on my lap. "I'm sorry I didn't bring any more food," she apologized. "I didn't know Emma would have any other visitors."
"That's alright," Rhys was quick to answer. "I was just heading out, anyway."
"Oh, what a shame . . . I hope I see you around more often!"
"Mom!" I hissed through my teeth, ripping the plastic container open. Rhys nodded once and left. "Do you even know the meaning of subtlety?"
She winked. "Oh, come off it, darling. He seems like a nice enough boy."
"Mom, I swear-"
"Is it wrong of me to want my daughter to have someone special in her life?"
I slapped the palm of my hand to my face. "I can't believe this is happening."
"Well believe it. I think you two have something special, Emmalyn."
"Yeah, terrible grades and worse progress on this English project."
She laughed lightly. "No, not that."
"Then I can't imagine what."
"I guess it's just something you'll have to find out." She pressed a kiss to my head. "Now I have to leave, seeing as I had to fight tooth and nail to get up here anyway, but I'll see you again in the morning, okay? They should let you out soon. I think you're just fine."
"I love you, Mom," I said, truly meaning every word.
She smiled. "You put me through hell, daughter," she muttered playfully. "I just find it funny that those four words are what would make me do it again in a heartbeat."