22
My chest burns, and searing pain hammers at my skull, as I slowly regain consciousness, immediately wishing I could return to my previous pain-free ignorant slumber. Blinking my eyes open, I cry out, wincing at the brash glare of the overhead fluorescent light in the strange room. The rhythmic beeping of a machine elevates in intensity, sending a fresh wave of piercing pain through my head. I whimper as urgent footsteps come closer. “Ms. Mills? I’m Nurse Watts,” a woman says as cool fingers press against my wrist. “Stay with me for a few minutes, and then you can go back to sleep.”
“We’re here, Vivien,” Mom says.
I force my eyes to remain open, avoiding looking directly at the harsh overhead light. “Mom,” I croak. “Everything hurts.”
Her worried face hovers over mine. “I know, honey, but it’s going to be okay.”
Dad pops up beside her. “You gave us quite a scare, princess.” Tears fill his eyes, and I want to reach up and hug him, but it feels like I’m superglued to the hospital bed.
“I know you’re anxious to talk to your daughter, but she still needs rest,” the nurse says.
I angle my head to look at her, moaning as intense pain batters my skull and the backs of my eyes.
“You have a concussion, Vivien, so any sudden movements should be avoided.” Her warm brown eyes are kind as she leans over me. “Your vitals look good, so I’m going to give you some more morphine.” She gently pats my hand. “Sleep. Your parents will be here when you wake up.”
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do. When I wake, Mom is asleep in a chair by my bed, and Dad is holding my right hand.
“How are you feeling?” he whispers, not wanting to wake Mom.
“Thirsty,” I rasp.
With huge tenderness, he props the pillows behind my head and elevates the bed before dropping some ice chips in my mouth.
“You’re awake,” Mom says. Her voice is drenched with sleep as she rubs her eyes.
“What happened?” I ask, opening my mouth for more ice chips.
“What do you remember?” Mom stifles a yawn while she dabs a damp cloth against my sweaty brow.
“Being shoved from behind and hitting my head hard. Then these girls, high school age, took turns kicking me. They were Saffhards, and they enjoyed hurling insults while beating the shit out of me. I guess I blacked out after that.”
“God, Vivien.” Mom’s cries bounce off the walls in the semi-dark room, and I flinch, groaning as the sound sends stabby pains shooting through my skull. Thank fuck someone dimmed the lights. “Sorry, honey.” Mom sniffles and wipes the moisture from under her eyes. “We thought it was a random mugging, but this is so much worse.” Her anguished eyes move to my father. “This was a targeted attack, Jon! She could’ve been killed.”
“Why wasn’t I? Did someone interrupt them?” I ask, praying they are locked up in police custody. I want to see them imprisoned for assaulting me. I’m not one of these do-gooder types who forgives them because they’re young and impressionable. Fuck that shit. They are old enough to know right from wrong, and they should be made to pay. Otherwise, how will they learn not to do this again? Giving girls like that a get out of jail free card will not serve them or society well. They need to learn there are consequences for beating up innocent women and that you can’t believe everything you read online.
“Unfortunately not,” Dad confirms. “The owner of the yoga studio found you when she was heading to her car.”
“They just left you beaten, bloody, and unconscious in the alley,” Mom sobs, more quietly this time.
“I’m okay, Mom.” I try to reassure her, because I hate seeing her so upset, but, obviously, I’m not okay. I’m the very furthest from okay a person can be.
“You have a concussion, three broken fingers, a broken wrist, and several fractured ribs, Vivien. They scratched your face and pulled out clumps of your hair. That is not my definition of okay.”
“Lauren.” Dad cautions her with a soft look. “Vivien is alive, and she’ll heal. We’ll leave no stone unturned until we find who did this.” Dad presses a light kiss to my brow. “Could you identify them?”
“It’s a bit of a blur, but I think so. I can definitely identify the girl who stood on me. I think her face will be imprinted in my nightmares for a long time to come.”
“She stood on you?” Mom gasps, pressing a shaky hand to her mouth.
“Yes. She held me down so the others could kick me.”
Mom buries her head in her hands, openly sobbing, and it’s killing me. Physically and emotionally. Using my eyes, I gesture to Dad to comfort her. He rounds the bed, holding Mom as she softly cries into his shirt.
The dull pounding in my head is not as bad as the pain I felt when I woke the last time, and the fiery pain in my chest is dialed down to where it’s manageable, but it still feels like there’s a dead weight resting on my upper torso, making my breathing labored. Glancing down, I notice the cast on my left hand and wrist for the first time, grateful it’s not my writing hand.
“Wait,” I say, panic bubbling to the surface. “What day is it? How long have I been out? What about my exams?” I blurt.