In an attempt to keep the suspicious thoughts at bay, for the next few days I threw myself into every available activity. My muscles ached from the endless torment upon them, but I knew it could only do me good — especially if Charles decided to follow through on his plan to infiltrate the city and have a word with the president.
Today, however, I had found myself sitting in the hospital wing of the elaborate underground network with my foot elevated on a chair; ugly swelling and bruising prominent around the ankle. As, despite my lack of physical prowess, I had injured myself not from daily activities, but instead from slipping on a bar of soap in the shower. But, at least it gave Ellie a good laugh as she heard my screams and came into investigate, claiming I looked like a murderous kitten as I sat helplessly on the shower floor.
Sitting in this waiting room chair, alone, though, I remembered my detest for hospitals.
They always gave me the chills, especially after a particular family member — who claimed to be psychic — told me that my spirit attracted the dread; whereas I would have liked to keep them far, far away from me.
Deciding to investigate, I call out for a nurse who passed by me. "Do you know which room Holly Flanagan is in?" I enquire, "You know, the girl found in the halls?"
The nurse pauses, before nodding in realization. "Oh, yeah! Room 34, I believe."
Thanking her, I wait until the nurse leaves before embarrassingly stammering to my feet. Using the walls as a stabilizer, I hop weakly down the hall — feeling the ice pack, secured to my ankle with a bandage, shift with my abrupt movements. Finally finding room 34, I peer into the room, discover no nurses and then hop further inside.
Although it was definitely an improvement, Holly's current physical state caused my heart to wrench. Hooked up to several monitors and an IV drip, I stopped for a moment and just watched her steady heartbeat as she weakly inhaled and exhaled through a tube. Tearing my eyes away from the monitor, I note the young girl's ghostly pallor and the halo of dirty blonde hair that was splayed across her pillows — her youthful beauty almost overshadowed by the bandages covering most of her visible skin.
Noticing a small book on the bedside table beside her stretcher bed, I feel warmth pool in my stomach at the familiar title page; The Great Gatsby. With a sad smile, I pick up the book and flick to the beginning; sparing Holly a glance before reading to her outloud.