CHAPTER 7
Celeste’s POV
A sharp clatter in the hallway jolted me awake. Then I heard hurried footsteps.
Something was wrong.
I pushed myself up from the cold, hard floor, my body aching from days of neglect. Since being locked away in this filthy utility room, nothing had changed–except for the daily medication forced down my throat.
And the scars multiplying on my arms.
I pulled my sleeves down, hiding the evidence. The small, deliberate wounds were my only anchor–reminders that I was still here
But the side effects of the drugs were getting worse. My heartbeat slowed unpredictably. My limbs weakened at random. Several times, I had felt my consciousness slipping away, my breath growing shallow.
I’d tried to get help
but no one really cared.
My beloved husband, Damien, probably knew I was here and did not give a damn at all.
I used to think I couldn’t survive without him. That if I just tried harder, loved him enough, he would finally look at me the way I once dreamed.
What a joke.
Now I had gone from sorrowful to completely indifferent.
I’m never crying over Damien Vaughn again. He can’t break me and he can’t destroy me.
I forced myself upright despite my trembling legs, and inched toward the door. Pressing my ear against the cold surface, I strained to catch the sounds outside.
Wait a minute. Something’s really off.
There were more people than usual. The footsteps outside my door had been hurried, voices hushed and tense.
What’s going on?
I was still trying to piece it together when the door to the utility room swung open. A group of nurses entered, eyes scanning me, whispering among themselves,
“Is it her?”
I stiffened
A pang of defensiveness surged through me. Their stares made my kin
Before I could even process what was happening, rough hands seized me without warning. No warning. No explanation.
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I thrashed, trying to resist, but the days of starvation had drained me. My body was sluggish and weak. It was useless to fight them–1 would only be wasting what little strength I had left.
And yet, I couldn’t stop the panic rising in my chest. “Where are you taking me?” I whispered with fear, my pulse racing like
crazy.
They shoved me onto a stretcher, pinning me down with practiced ease. The cold leather straps tightened around my wrists and
anldes.
My heart pounded violently.
“No-” I tried to twist, to push back, but it was pointless.
I craned my neck, desperate to catch a glimpse of where we were going, but the fluorescent lights overhead blurred together as
the stretcher moved faster.
I could hear the faint hum of voices. Nurses whispering. Footsteps shuffling. Someone gave a low chuckle.
I wanted to jump off and run. But it would be impossible to escape in my present condition.
Then suddenly, we stopped. They took me into a room with bright, blinding lights. I braced myself for another round of forced.
medication, but instead, warm water hit my skin.
A shower.
I blinked, disoriented, as my surroundings came into focus. White tiles. A row of sinks. We’re inside a bathroom, I realized.
Rough hands scrubbed at me, stripping away the layers of grime and dried blood. The sting of soap against my raw wounds made me wince, but I bit my tongue, refusing to react,
I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
They worked in silence, mechanical and efficient. Like I wasn’t even a person. Just something to be cleaned up.
When they were done, they wrapped fresh bandages around my wounds. Tight enough to stop the bleeding, but not gentle
enough to show care.
Then came the clothes- fresh and clean. Truly contradictory to the filthy condition they’d left me inside that utility room. They dressed me in a new long–sleeved shirt, carefully covering every mark.
I sat there, dripping and disoriented. Now I was certain that something was definitely wrong.
Why are they cleaning me up like this? Is this what they do to a patient before finishing them off?
My instincts screamed that they were not just being kind, or doing it out of pity.
I tried to break free, jerking my arms, but the nurse beside me only tutted in annoyance and pressed me down onto the chair.
CHARTE
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“Don’t make this difficult,” she muttered.
I gritted my teeth as they pulled me forward and placed me on a wheelchair before dragging me down another long hallway.
Then just as we neared a door, one of them leaned in, her breath brushing my ear.
“Don’t say anything you shouldn’t,” she whispered smoothly, “You wouldn’t want to see your old janitor go through all sorts of
trouble.”
A cold chill crawled down my spine. I turned my head sharply, glaring at her, but she only smirked and straightened.
Fucking bastards. They were threatening to harm the old janitor who had been kind to me!
I swallowed back my fury, forcing myself to stay composed as they led me through the door.
And there, sitting right in front of me, was a ghost from the past. A familiar face that brought tears to my eyes.
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