A MURMURED VOICE pulled me gently from the black abyss.
My heavy lids put up a fight as I struggled to open them. But eventually my eyes fluttered open, only to be blinded by a bright, white light overhead.
I was lying on my back, my head rested on a rather uncomfortable pillow. It took me a second to really realize I wasn't lying on the snowy ground, but rather in stiff, scratchy bed.
I opened my mouth to call out to the person whose voice is heard, praying it wasn't just my mind playing tricks on me, but nothing more than a whimper of pain left my lips. My throat was dry, rubbing together like sandpaper as I tried to form words. Tears welled in my half-opened eyes as I continued to force my lips to move, until I managed to utter one, barely intelligible word.
"Daddy?"
The whispered voices stopped, and I immediately felt two warm, strong hands wrap around one of my own bandage covered hands.
"I'm right here, Scarlett," he said, his voice choked but strong. "I'm right here baby girl."
I closed my eyes again as silent tears slipped down my cheeks.
I hadn't known if I'd ever hear my father's voice again. But, now here he was, holding my hand tightly between his as if he never wanted to let go. A part of me didn't want him to either.
"Oh god, Scarlett. I love you, sweetheart," he sobbed quietly, one of his hands coming to gently stroke my hair. "I love you."
"I love you too," I said shakily.
It took a moment for my father to compose himself again. When I opened my eyes, he had taken a seat beside my hospital bed, his hand still firmly clasped around mine. He was watching me, with so many emotions in his pale eyes, his other hand covering his mouth as if he was still in shock.
I said the only thing I could think of to break our newfound silence. "I'm sorry, Dad."
My dad shook his head sharply, the hand over his mouth slapping loudly against his leg. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Scarlett. You did nothing wrong."
"But I did," I replied quietly, my voice still scratchy. "I shouldn't have left. If I hadn't left you—"
"You can't know that, sweetheart," he said, his voice stern like only a father's could be. "You cannot blame yourself for what happened."
"I went with him, Dad," I said through tear-filled eyes. "I chose that. He said he would hurt you, hurt Aimee and Meghan. I had to, Daddy, I'm so sorry."
"Scarlett, you did what you thought you had to. Nobody's mad at you, nobody blames you."
"But—"
Dad squeezed my hand again, tightly in his, and shook his head calmly. "You shouldn't blame yourself either, sweetheart. Besides, in the end, what's important is that you are here, and you are safe. It's over."
There was something so final about the way he said that. But I didn't get the opportunity to ask what he meant before a knock sounded at the door of my room, and a familiar face with brunette braids peaked inside.
"I see someone's finally awake," the friendly face smiled.
"Dr. Michaels?" I exclaimed, entirely surprised to see her again. I couldn't help but smile at the woman who had helped me grow so much in the first months of my new life.
The doctor stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her. Her bright smile and purple scrubs brought back memories of the long talks we'd had what felt like years ago. She was the first person I had allowed to show me kindness, the first person I had told about what I had gone through, and I think she would always be something of a hero to me. Without her, I might not have become the girl I had.
I would always be thankful for what she had done. And despite the reasons behind it, I was happy to see her again.
"Hello, Scarlett," she said softly, coming to stand on the other side of my bed, across from where my father sat protectively. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore," was my automatic response, summarizing every ache and throb and sting I felt all over my body with a simple word.
Dr. Michaels nodded, taking a second to check out the monitor I was hooked up to before turning back to me. "Well, everything looks pretty good. We had to give you a couple stitches on your arms and your forehead, and we cleaned some glass out of your cuts, but otherwise you were very lucky. No broken bones, no surgeries."
A dull throbbing behind my eyes reminded me of just how hard I had hit my head during the first accident, let alone the second. "And my head?"
"Nice catch," she chuckled softly. "You did suffer a pretty severe concussion, but thankfully there was no bleeding aside from your external injuries. You'll have to mind bright lights and loud noises for a little bit, and no reading or cellphone, but it's nothing a steady dose of acetaminophen and rest won't mend."
"Thanks, Doc," I smiled, faltering just a bit at the end. "So we're back in Boston, then?"
"Providence, actually," she clarified. "I actually left Boston shortly after you did."
I nodded, still feeling the weight of fatigue against my lids. I must have started dozing off because the next thing I knew, Dr. Michaels was gently squeezing my free hand and promising to come back in a little bit after I rested.
The door clicked as she left the room, leaving me and Dad alone in the white room. I felt the pull of peaceful sleep, but my father's words were still fresh in my mind.
"Get some rest, sweetheart. I'll still be here when you wake up," Dad said softly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
I blinked hard, trying to blink away the fog of sleep as I subtly shook my head. "No, I'm not tired. I want to know what you meant earlier. What did you mean when you said it was over. Are you sure?"
My father let out a long sigh, before passing me a mug of water. "Drink first, and then I'll explain, okay?"
Eagerly, I nodded my head and greedily took the mug from his outstretched hand. I tried gulping it down, but the shock of the coolness against my scratchy throat had me coughing up my first mouthful.
Once Dad had grabbed a towel and helped me clean up the mess I had made by spewing water all over my hospital gown, I managed a few small sips. He seemed pleased enough by that, setting the mug back on the table beside him and settling back into his chair.
"It is over now, Scarlett. I promise," my father sad seriously, leaning forward.
I blinked, waiting for him to say something more, but the only thing that filled the air was his silence.
"Did the police arrest him? Is he in prison?" I asked cautiously. Every part of me wanted to hear my father say yes, except a tiny voice in the back of my head that dreaded the thought of him in a prison cell for the rest of his life.
My father took another deep breath, and I watched the look on his face as he considered his response. "No. No, he's not in prison," he said levelly, void of any of the anger I would expect to hear. After all, the last time he hadn't been caught, he had found me again.
I heard the steady beep of my heartbeat on the machine speed up as panic rose in my chest, my lungs freezing mid-breath. I wasn't sure I could survive with the threat of him coming back once again dangling over my head like a sword.
Or worse, the revenge he might exact over me by harming my friends.
Or my father.
My stomach heaved. "Daddy, they have to find him. He threatened—"
I had begun shaking, bolting upright and scrambling aimlessly on the bed. My father also bolted to his feet, his hands coming down on my shoulders, his face hovering directly in front of mine. I watched as his lips formed words before my eyes, but his voice couldn't pierce through the bubble of panic that had wrapped itself around me.
I didn't know how long my father stood like that, repeating the same words over and over until somehow they finally broke through the wall.
"They shot him, Scarlett. He's dead. It's over."
My wide-eyed gaze snapped up to meet my father's calm one. He continued to say those same words, without pause, until I lay completely still in his protective arms.
"He's dead," I echoed breathlessly, my voice barely a whisper. "It's over."
A heavy silence hung in the air, save for the once-again steady beeping of my heartbeat on the monitor over the bed. We were completely still, barely breathing. I watched my father watching me, gauging my response, or lack thereof.
"It's over."
With those two final words, I collapsed against my father's chest and he didn't hesitate as he wrapped his warm, loving arms around me.
I was safe.
It was finally over.
"What was his name?"
I had fallen asleep not long after, wrapped up in my father's comforting hug. I was still there when I woke up. My body was stiff and tired, but for the first time in a while, my mind wasn't fogged with pain and worry. I felt lighter, somehow.
Relieved.
There had been a tray of food on the table beside the bed, having arrived while I was asleep, and my father took no time handing it to me before dutifully returning to his post at my bedside.
Now that my mind was clear, the wheels began turning, processing the news I'd received that day. I wanted explanations. In fact, I think I needed them if I ever hoped to return to my normal life without constantly feeling the need to watch over my shoulder.
The thing I felt I needed to know the most was who that man had been. The man who put me through hell for more than half of my life, who had beaten down my mind, my body and my soul until I was barely a person anymore.
I needed answers.
"His name was Alexei Koskov."
The answer came easily, like my father had already committed to memory the name of the man who all but destroyed his family. There was a certain level of malice to the way he said the name. I felt that same anger when I finally realized I could put a name to the face that had haunted my nightmares, but I also felt a certain feeling of relief.
Because he was a person now too, with a name and a history, and no longer a nameless monster. He had no power over me anymore.
"He immigrated from Russia as a child, and grew up in Boston," my father explained solemnly, his hands folded in his lap. "According to the F.B.I., he'd been under investigation for human trafficking years ago. They suspected he was a part of a group responsible for smuggling women into the U.S. from Russia, but they could never find any solid evidence to arrest him. One woman had managed to escape, and planned to testify against him, but when she passed away, the case went cold."
It took me a moment to process this tale my father was telling. I aimlessly stirred a plastic spoon in my soup, not incredibly interested in eating the lumpy liquid. "So, what you're saying is that if that woman never died, I might've had a normal life?" I asked hesitantly.
The expression on my father's face softened as he leaned against the side of my bed and reached to lay a hand on my knee. "Scarlett, that woman was your mother. You birth mother, Vasilisa Rostova."
The spoon fell from my hand, clattering onto the tray. "My— But— He wasn't— Was he?" I sputtered unable to voice the sudden conclusion this revelation had lead me to.
He squeezed my hand, shaking his head sternly. "That man was not your birth father, if that's what you're wondering."
I looked over at my father with wide eyes. "How do you know that?"
I watched his expression shift to one of immense and completely unexplained guilt. With a heavy sigh, he continued, his voice. "Because, Scarlett. I met that man when you were four years old."
When I said nothing, just stared blankly ahead of me, my father continued. "He came to us, claiming we had adopted his girlfriend's child and demanding we hand you over to him," he said, almost shamefully. "Your mother and I requested a paternity test. Your biological father wasn't there when you were born, nobody knew who he was. Your mother was entirely undocumented, they didn't even know where she lived. Legally, you were our child. We loved you and we raised you as our own. But if this young man decided to take us to court, we needed to know if he had any grounds whatsoever."
"The test was negative?" I asked shakily.
"He may have known your birth mother— trafficked her— but the fact was she was an addict, and involved a lot of bad things. The chances of you being his biological child were incredibly slim, so he shouldn't have been surprised when our lawyers informed him you weren't."
Wrapping my arms around myself, I nodded my understanding. "Did he ever contact you again?"
"Never," Dad stated, shaking his head sharply. "Scarlett, if I had just told the police about him when he first took you, we could've brought you home to us. I should've put it together."
"Dad, no," I said sternly, putting my hand over his where it rested on my knee. "Please don't say that. It was two years before it happened. You couldn't have known."
"I understand if you're angry, Scarlett. It's okay."
"I'm not angry, Daddy," I clarified, my brow furrowed n confusion. "You told me not to blame myself, now I'm going to do the same. I know now that you kept those secrets to protect me, because you love me. So, no, I'm not angry. You're my dad, you're my family and I love you."
I would never get used to the sight of tears welling in my father's eyes, even as he leaned in and gathered me up in another affectionate, comforting hug. With one hand, he stroked my hair, sniffing away.
"I'm so glad you're safe, sweetheart. I don't know what I would've done if I'd lost you," he mourned against my shoulder.
"You'll never have to find out, Daddy. You're stuck with me."
My father laughed then, a deep, heartwarming laugh that had me joining in despite my best efforts to remain serious.
If only I'd known how wrong I'd been.
Later, Dr. Michaels returned to inform is that there was a gaggle of teenagers gathering in the waiting room.
"They're harassing the poor nursing student at the front desk," she grinned, chuckling lightly. "You've made quite a few friends in our time apart, I see."
"Friends? Nah, those are just some very persistent stalkers of mine," I said seriously, shaking my head in denial.
"Well, I wish I'd known that before I let them all camp out in our living room the last two days," my father mused, momentarily looking up from his book with a half smile.
"If you're feeling up to it, you should probably humor them. Last I heard, one of them was threatening to report the poor girl to her college."
"That would be Aimee," I giggled quietly, a grin spread across my face as I pictured Aimee threatening the poor student. If the girl could handle my neurotic best friend, surely she would be successful in her career.
"If it's allowed, I'd like to see them."
Dr. Michaels nodded, still chuckling to herself as she excused herself to rescue the poor, unfortunate soul possibly pulling her hair out while she questioned her career choice.
"So, you let my friends overtake the living room?" I asked my father once she was gone, an amused smile playing at my lips.
"They were just as worried about you as I was," my father said, shaking his head sympathetically. "Poor Amelia was a wreck. She's worse than you when it comes to shouldering blame."
I let out a sad sigh. "If she tries apologizing, I cannot be held responsible for my actions," I grumbled, more to myself than my father.
Just then the door practically flew off the hinges as it sprung open, and a steady stream of familiar faces poured into the room. Two redheads, two blondes and a raven-haired head to be precise.
Somehow, all five of them managed to pile onto my single hospital bed without inflicting any injuries to me or themselves. It was a blur of tears and smiles and hugs, and I was barely aware of my father quietly excusing himself for a long overdue cup of coffee.
Each of my friends erupted into a flurry or questions and comments, not bothering to take turns or speak one at a time. Instead, their voices overlapped, their words jumbled together into a hardly intelligible chatter.
"Are you okay?!"
"I'm so, so sorry, Red!"
"God, we missed you!"
"You scared the shit out of us!"
"Morgan, get off my bloody lap!"
I couldn't help but laugh and cry at the same time. Someone passed me a tissue from the bedside table, and I shamelessly blew my nose like a sap before wiping away my happy tears.
Eventually, my friends calmed down to their usual level of psychosis, with Aimee, Meghan and Sienna reminding spread out across my bed, Aurora perched on the table and Rachel overtaking my father's chair. I sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, scratchy blankets covering my bare legs.
"Are you okay?" Meghan asked first, a worried frown taking the place of her usual Meghan-watt smile, a crease forming in the middle of her forehead. "They said you'd been in a car accident."
Accident was possibly the wrong word to describe the events of that night, but I wasn't about to say that.
"I'm fine," I said instead, painting a smile on my face. "Just some cuts and a concussion."
My response didn't ease Meghan's frown though, and with a sigh, Rachel piped in. "She meant are you okay, considering you were in a car accident, kidnapped and held at gunpoint, all over the course of about six hours."
"Rachel," Sienna hissed, lobbing an empty paper coffee cup at the dark haired girl's head. "Keep your gob shut."
I waved a hand in Sienna's direction, dismissing her worries. "I mean it guys, I'm fine, really. I mean, I'm tired and sore, but for once in my life I don't feel like I'm waiting for this perfect bubble to burst. I can finally move passed this."
"I'm glad," Aurora chimed, reaching over from her spot on the side table to give me a light hug.
"Thank you, guys. For coming all this way," I smile, looking at each of my friends in turn. "And for harassing unsuspecting students for information," I added when my gaze fell on Aimee. "It means a lot."
"Well, thankfully we didn't let Kennedy over there drive us. We'd have never made it here in one piece," Rachel scoffed, pointing a black fingernail towards Sienna. Her words brought back fond memories of that time we were stupid enough to let her drive us all the way to New York, but the mention of her last name also tugged at my heart.
A part of me had hoped to see her brother's deep blue eyes and crooked smile when they'd piled into the room. But he was nowhere in sight. Unsurprising, really, after all that I'd put him through.
"So, Red, did the doctor say when you can come home?" Aimee asked, nudging me gently with her shoulder to get my attention.
I gave my head a quick shake, dismissing the thoughts of Noah from my head before I grinned over at my best friend. "Yeah, I'm free to go. Just as soon as someone can find me some decent espresso— and maybe a pair of pants."
Alright y'all, I think you can put your pitchforks away now...
Yes, I know I said you'd have to wait until April for new chapters. But y'all can thank tayxwriter for threatening the motivation to write into me. Don't get used to it.
There's much more to come, so stay patient, but watch out for a new update MAYBE coming before the end of the month.
Until next time, I've got no sassy comments.... what's happening to me?
🖤🖤🖤