Chapter 28:
Consciousness creeps in, and my eyes flutter open to the familiar yet disorienting confines of a hospital room. The sterile scent mingles with a faint floral fragrance from the nearby table adorned with tokens of affection. My mother's soft breathing syncs with Ron's louder, rhythmic snoring as they find solace in each other's presence, her head resting gently on his shoulder. His green eyes are hidden under heavy lids, and I'm momentarily comforted by their presence.
Pain throbs through my skull like a persistent drum, my vision swimming with each blink. It feels as though my brain is swathed in cotton, the world appearing hazy and distant. The room, with its pale walls and the incessant beep of nearby medical equipment, echoes the last time I was bound to a hospital bed—only now, the sense of foreboding is far more acute.
A cool line traces down my arm, pulling my attention to the IV needle piercing my skin—a lifeline in the form of saline drip. I move, an instinctive shift to sit upright, but my body protests with sharp stabs of pain that ignite memories of Byron's assault. Muscular and towering, Byron looms in my mind's eye, his brown hair a dark halo in the stark light of recollection, his deep, raspy voice resonating with threats.
Gritting my teeth against the discomfort, I ease myself into a sitting position, ensuring not to disturb the IV line's delicate intrusion. My fingers tentatively explore the back of my head, finding the rough texture of a gauze bandage. The contact sends a fresh wave of pain ricocheting inside my skull.
I take a few deep breaths, willing the pain to ebb away. I clear my throat, a tentative sound at first, then stronger. Relief washes over me as my voice doesn't falter. I'm still here, still fighting.
I focus myself on my strength within and ready myself to face whatever comes next.
I reach to the nearby table for a white cup of ice chips. The chill of the styrofoam cup seeps into my palm as I clumsily jiggle it, coaxing the ice cubes to break their frozen embrace. The clinking sounds shatter the silence, stirring my mother from her doze. Her blue eyes, clouded with concern, snap open and fix on me. A gasp escapes her lips as she shakes Ron's arm, urgency knitting her brows.
Ron stirs, his eyes bleary with sleep, but he straightens as Lori collapses beside my bed, her hands finding mine with a trembling touch.
"Akila, we are so glad you are safe," Lori breathes out, her voice laced with relief and something else—fear, maybe. My heart clenches at the raw emotion etched across her face.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, her gaze searching mine.
I'm adrift in a sea of uncertainty, waves of confusion crashing over me. "I'm fine. A little confused," I manage to utter, though 'fine' is a galaxy away from the truth.
Lori begins to rise, her protective instincts kicking in. "Do you want anything? I'm sure I can find a nurse."
But I can't bear to see her worry more, not when her shoulders already carry the weight of my world. I reach out, fingers brushing her arm. She hesitates, then sinks back down, her presence a silent comfort. "No, I'm okay," I say, though my shaky voice betrays me.
"Okay," she replies, trying to muster a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Ron shifts behind her, his posture rigid. "You must be very tough to go through everything you did," he says, his tone carrying both awe and sorrow.
"Ron," Lori warns, her sharp glance cutting him off. She turns back to me, her expression softening like wax under a flame. "You went through a lot, and we are not going to talk about it," she says gently, "but there are some police officers standing by that want to ask you some questions."
Curiosity and dread knot together in my stomach. My hazel eyes flick to the door, where a shadow stands sentinel. "Why can't they talk to me at home?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Lori smooths the sheets, a stalling gesture. "They were ordered to stand watch for a while," she replies after a moment's pause.
I hold her gaze, willing her to unravel the rest of the story hanging from her lips. Reluctantly, she continues, "There were some threats made by one of those men, and they have to make sure you are safe because of that."
Her words hang heavy in the air, and I choose not to delve deeper, not wanting to add to the storm brewing behind her blue eyes. Instead, I nod, accepting the unspoken truths lingering between us.
Lori settles back into her chair, the lines of worry etched deep on her face as she watches me. But moments later, she's up again, pacing like a caged animal. The tension in the room builds with each step, each crease of her brow.
"Do you want to talk to the police now and get it over with?" Her voice quivers slightly, betraying her composed exterior.
I hesitate, my mind a whirlpool of thoughts and fears. "Umm. Yes. I will talk to them now." My attempt at confidence sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Okay. I will let them know." Lori clasps her hands together, nerves making her fingers fumble before she turns and leaves. Through the glass pane, her silhouette moves with haste, gesturing to an unseen figure. And then she's back, the officer trailing close behind.
"Hi Akila. I'm glad to see you are doing much better." The officer's familiar military cut casts a stark shadow against the sterile white walls. Recognition grips me; he's the one who discovered my nightmare, who watched Derek's downfall through the same set of hazel eyes that now watch him enter my sanctuary. He ordered his partner to arrest the one person who tried to help me.
"I understand that this will be difficult for you," he continues, his voice steady and professional, "so I'm going to ask that your mother and brother wait outside while I ask you these questions."
Ron doesn't hesitate; he's up and moving toward the door without a word. Lori's reluctance forms a lump in my throat. It's Ron's reassuring nod that finally propels her forward.
Left alone, I shuffle against my pillows, trying to find a semblance of comfort in the stiff hospital bed. The officer claims the bench, its faux leather creaking under his weight.
With a soft click, privacy envelops us, and the magnitude of what's about to happen roots me to the spot. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a frenzied plea to escape the memories I'm about to unlock.
The officer's pen hovers over the notepad, poised to dissect my memories with clinical precision. "Before we begin," he starts, his voice a low hum that fills the sterile room, "I want you to know that I have been working on this case since it hit my desk seven months ago. My name is Officer Kevin Kotowski."
I nod, a tremor coursing through me at the mention of time—a chasm of fear and darkness.
He glances up from his notes, eyes earnest, searching. "I have had the chance to speak with the other women and they all agree that things... shifted the moment you were put there." His statement holds weight, a shared burden among survivors. "What brought you to The Lotus Lounge that night?"
My throat tightens, but I manage a whisper, "I was meeting someone for a date."
"Who were you meeting?" he asks, pen ready.
"Derek." The name tastes like betrayal on my tongue.
"No last name?" He looks up, brows knit in focus.
"No... I don't know his last name." My admission feels like defeat.
"Nobody does." The officer's mutter is barely audible as he scribbles. I can't help but wonder what thoughts dance behind those focused eyes. "What happened when they took you inside?" he presses, pulling me back into the past.
A shudder rolls through me. "I walked in the back door and they were waiting for me. I was grabbed from behind." The memory plays out in flashes—cold hands, muffled cries, the scent of danger.
"Did they say what they wanted from you?" his voice is gentle now, coaxing the truth.
"They took my necklace." A lump forms in my throat; a trinket of sentimentality turned talisman of terror.
"Is it valuable?" His question drills deeper, but I shake my head.
"Not that I know of. I got it from my grandmother." The words are thick with unshed tears for more than just the lost jewelry.
"Where is the necklace now?" His inquiry pulls at threads I'm scared to unravel.
"I don't know." Silence stretches between us, laden with unspoken fears and doubts.
"May I ask a question?" I interject, needing to grasp some control. "How did you find me?"
"Your car. An anonymous call about an abandoned vehicle by a lake, 60 miles from where you were found. Inside, your phone and messages from Derek." He recites the facts, detached from the emotion they stir within me.
"What's going to happen to them? The men that did this?" My voice quavers, seeking solace in justice.
"We have one in custody. The rest are out on bail, awaiting trial dates. We're collecting evidence to expedite their convictions." Confidence resonates in his tone, but it can't quell the storm inside me.
"Why do you think they tried to kill you and not anyone else?" His question is a knife twisting in the wound.
"Maybe because I fought back and got out of my cell." The words tumble out, laced with disbelief and dread. "They're still out there?"
His gaze softens, the officer's facade giving way to compassion. "These men won't get to you," he assures me, setting the notepad aside. "We've got their leader; the others will scatter."
But I know fear is not easily assuaged. "Are you sure you don't have any information about these men?" he probes once more, hope dimming in his eyes.
"None," I whisper, feeling useless, vulnerable.
"Unfortunately, they've erased themselves from existence." Frustration tinges his voice, mirroring my own helplessness.
The silence that follows is suffocating. Then he stands, his movements deliberate, a sign this purgatory of questions has ended. "Thank you for your cooperation," he says, offering a smile meant to comfort. "I know this information is a lot to take in but you will be protected from now on."
His assurance should be a balm, yet my skin prickles with the knowledge of unseen threats. He promises to return once I'm home, his silhouette receding towards the door as the echo of his commitment lingers in the air: "You will be protected from now on".
With each step he takes away from me, the walls press closer—a cell of white and beeping monitors.
The officer's hand pauses on the cool metal of the door handle, his fingers curled loosely as if hesitating to leave the room. He turns back toward me, and the sternness that once clouded his face has lifted like fog in morning sunlight. His kinder gaze meets mine, offering a glimpse of empathy amidst the formality of his uniform.
"Before I go," he starts, voice lower, gentler, "there's something you should know." He steps closer, the distance between us shrinking along with the walls that seem to have confined my world for far too long. "The other women, they're saying you're the reason they're safe now. They think when you got free, you went for help."
I blink, caught off guard, memories flickering like old film reels—shadows and screams, the cold bite of steel against my hands, the desperate rush of adrenaline. A small part of me wants to correct him, but the words dissolve before they reach my lips.
He continues, his eyes softening, "They're lined up for interviews already, talking about what happened." A pause, then, "I haven't set the record straight because, frankly, you deserve recognition for your bravery. You all do. The strength you showed...the abuse you suffered..." His throat tightens with unspoken respect, "It makes you more formidable than anyone anticipated."
A muscle twitches in his jaw as he holds my gaze, his next words carrying the weight of unsung battles. "Some folks didn't think you'd make it out. Thank you for proving them wrong. Keep fighting."
His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's warm, genuine—like a candle's flame stubborn against the dark. Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the echo of his words as they settle into the cracks of my resolve.
Through the door, I hear him explain the situation to my mother, regarding the fact that only one man is actually in jail right now.
Through the frosted glass, I see the silhouette of my mother—a tempest of fear and fury. Her scream pierces the air, raw and ragged. Ron's voice weaves through hers, a calming thread in the tapestry of chaos. He's always been the steady one, the anchor in our storm. But even he can't muffle her despair.
"Ma'am, I assure you, we have officers placed at your home," the officer's voice filters through, steady despite the tension. "We'll keep watch until this is resolved."
Resolved? What does that even mean anymore? My mother's form shakes behind the glass, a dance of denial and desperation. Her hands cut through the air, painting her anguish for all to see.
"Normal" is a word that no longer belongs to me. Since moving to Oregon, normalcy has been a stranger, slipping further away with each passing moment. And after what I've lived through, after what we've all survived, I doubt its return—a haunting thought that lingers long after the echoes of my mother's cries have faded.
And though the officer is gone, the ghosts of his words haunt me, mingling with the specter of a necklace lost and the shadowy figures that might come searching for it.