The Pretty Poison

PART 32 - The Surface: Her Awakening

PART 32 – The Surface: Her Awakening

Beep… beep… beep… The sound repeats over and over in the room. Though anything in volume could cover its noise, the gravity and seriousness of it could never be equaled. But this particular sound means life. The girl is alive.

From restlessness and the chill of the room, she lies fidgeting on her mattress beneath the thin sheets and barely warming blanket. White walls gleamed the sun pouring in the window back to her face, making it that much harder for her to stay asleep. With all the terrifying dreams of death and insanity she has been having, calm and dreamless nights were a rarity. In a huff, she opens her hazel eyes one at a time and glances around the room.

This is not where I fell asleep, she thinks to herself. Confusion settles in her thoughts, something the personality was all too used to. Trying to gain her bearings the girl sits up, instantly regretting it. Throbbing pain shoots through her stomach at the motion and commands her to stay put. The steady beat of the machine next to her quickens with her pulse. Falling back to her pillows, she swears and tries to rub the tenderness away. Of course, when she tries to move she finds her arms stay fastened to the bed. The machine beeps quicker as she realizes her wrists are tied down. She is restrained again.

“Nurse,” her voice squeaks into the air. It isn’t until she speaks that she finds out how thirsty she is. Her arms fight their confinement painfully as she calls over and over again for help. Her tongue licks over her lips, chapping them more than softening. The thirst is almost as unbearable as the pain searing in her stomach yet she can do nothing. She cries out louder and more urgently this time. “Miss Conlin?!”

The wooden door opens, revealing a lady in scrubs and messy brown bob-cut. Her curls spring wildly out around her as she hurries to the machine and checks their screens. Satisfied that nothing is too terribly wrong, she turns back to the girl.

“Let me just get you out of these…” she says quietly. The patient’s foggy mind echoes the words around. There is something familiar about the Miss Conlin’s voice. Automatically, the girl’s hand reaches for her stomach as soon as her wrist is released. Stitches poke out from beneath the flimsy hospital gown. Her fingers quickly gather its material and lift it off. There on her stomach is a large gash trying to heal itself. Her attention is soon transferred to the bandages on her wrists. Moving her hand, she feels where the perpendicular lines were drawn on her skin. The tears in her eyes began to well.

“What— What have I done this t-time,” she tries to ask without sobbing too hard. The young girl grabs for the nurse’s hand she has come to trust. The woman looks down to her, wiping the straggling hair out of the patient’s face. “Dear god! What did we do?”

“Westley is gone, Angela,” she says calmly. The voice still drifts hazily around the young girl’s mind. Though she hasn’t felt fully awake in weeks, the girl feels so accustomed to Miss Conlin’s voice. “He wasn’t worth dying for anyway. He controlled you, remember?”

Hazel eyes look up at the mention of those unforgivable names. Angela, Westley? Of course they would. Her head lowers in disgust at what the lovers would make her do.

“I’m not Pretty,” she says dejected. The nurse shakes her head in a motherly manner and reaches for the clipboard hanging on the wall. The girl wonders if she even was heard. “I’m… I’m not Pretty!”

“Of course you are! Scars are a part of who we are and they make us stro—”

“No!”

The nineteen year old burn victim raises herself with her arms very carefully to sit up. Wary about hurting herself further, the woman draws closer and helps. Instead of accepting the aid, the girl grabs the nurse’s wrist and pulls her hand to the undamaged side of her face.