Page 76 of I Would Beg For You
“I have her,” I tell her. “We’re on our way.”
Chapter 24 Naomi
It feels strange towake up. Like I’m in a bubble of cotton, all woozy. The first thing I notice is the bitter taste in the back of my throat, then there’s the utterly disgusting sensation of metal on my tongue. Like I just bit the inside of my mouth and blood seeped out, the copper tinge everywhere on my tastebuds, a thick coating that makes me want to retch as soon as it hits my senses.
Bile rises from my stomach, and I turn and try to hurl it out. Except, nothing comes. Maybe because there isn’t anything to throw up? I’ve hardly been eating lately, powering on the hot chocolate my father makes for me every night. During the day, it’s easier to grab a protein shake from the cooler that’s in one of the cars that follows us to every venue.
No wonder I’m feeling disorientated. I tried a juice cleanse once, and that’s how it made me feel. Too light, as if I might float away any minute, though my head felt heavy. Never again, I’d said. Guess I’d forgotten my own words.
The dry retching abates, and I take a few deep breaths to try and make the room stop spinning around me. Funny,there’s no strange odor in my nose today. It had smelled like a disinfectant’s chemical citrus, trying to cover the reek of something not at all palatable. Streets of New York sometimes smelled like that. Piss, I’d thought a few times. Why on Earth would my room smell like days-old pee?
I wince when I open my eyes. The room is bright. Much too bright. It blinds me for a few seconds, then I blink and try to conjure some saliva in my mouth to wash away the metallic tang.
The light won’t abate, though. I need to shield my eyes, but why isn’t my hand coming up? Something is tugging my palm back.
My eyelids flutter at the sight of the clear dressing on the back of my hand holding a butterfly thingie in place, a plastic tube running from it all the way up to…a pouch of clear liquid on a metal stand. An IV? Why would I have an IV in?
Images flood my mind. Someone squeezing my wrist too tight. One such butterfly apparatus being pushed onto the back of my right hand, the radiating pain from the grip holding my hand obliterated by the stinging prick of a needle being forced into my vein. A yelp escaping me, turning into a scream when a forceful thumb presses too hard on whatever is in my vein and a burning sensation runs up my arm as liquid gushes in through the IV. Then it’s dark, and I’m falling, and…
From afar, I can hear the rumble of low keening. Who is this person in so much pain and despair? The sound is breaking my heart.
Suddenly, hands press on my shoulders. Oh my God, they’re here again. The people who forced the IV in my hand. Why are they doing this?
“It’s okay,” a woman’s soft voice is saying.
“Stop. Please.”
These last words sound garbled, thick, as if the person speaking to them can’t articulate well. When I feel my jawworking, I realize I’m the person making these noises. Tears pearl at my eyes and fall unimpeded down my cheeks.
“It’s alright, piccola,” the woman says, tone gentle and light.
But panic is building inside me. Someone used to tell me the same thing…though they never sounded this attentive. How can this be all right? I don’t need medication. I don’t need an IV…
Memories continue to assail me. Rough hands and beefy arms grabbing me and squeezing me tight, not letting me escape. My legs going numb underneath me, and as I fall, crumpling onto the hard, cold floor, a woman glaring triumphantly at me, her white dress stark in my blurry vision, her hand up, the glint of metal winking malevolently at me as I close my eyes. It’s a needle at the end of a syringe. The woman was drugging me!
The low keening returns in my ears, getting stronger now.
I can’t be here. What are they doing to me?
My right hand goes to the adhesive, trying to rip it and the IV out. It’s tearing at my skin, and this hurts. It hurts so much. My eyes are getting blurry, vision clouded. They’re drugging me. Why?
I’m sobbing and mumbling now. When soft hands land on my shoulders again, I push them away. I catch a flash of blue out of the corner of my eye, which prompts me to focus. It looks like medical scrubs. I haven’t seen anyone wear this color lately; it’s always white. I hate the very idea of white now, because it wants to look pure and unthreatening, yet it is everything but.
“Val!” I hear someone call out.
My ears hitch onto that name, blipping out a barrage of rapid Italian in its wake.
Valentino. It’s a name I haven’t heard in so long, one I’ve been thinking about so much.
“Val,” I mumble, feeling utterly defeated as I recall him, his arms around me, his beautiful smile when he’s looking at me and I’m unaware then I lift my head to catch him watching me, histensed features when he’s taking me, when he’s about to come and the sound of my name sings out of his lips on rushed air.
“Naomi!”
Strange how I can hear him now. “Val.”
“I’m here, gattina. I’m here.”
I’m being cradled to a strong, warm chest now. A whiff of sandalwood and cypress drifts to nose, and I inhale in the scent of him. It’s surely my imagination at work, but I’ll take whatever solace I can find in this moment. Valentino is my rock, my anchor, my one certainty in this world.
