Exactly forty-eight hours after Elder had left me, the only other male I was allowed contact with entered my annihilated room.
His kind eyes widened, taking in the destruction before pressing his lips together and crossing the space to the bed where I huddled beneath a salvaged sheet.
“Hello.”
I squeezed my eyes, knowing exactly why he was here and ready, but not quite ready, to accept his help.
“I hear you’ve had a rough couple of days.” Standing close, he rubbed the mattress beside me. “May I?”
I didn’t open my eyes or give him permission, but he sat anyway, carefully keeping his body from touching mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Such a simple question but loaded with far too much. My gaze flew wide even as my tongue stung from where I’d bitten it by accident two nights ago. Even if I did want to talk to someone, to remember what it was like to hold a conversation and purge this filth inside me, I couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not until my tongue was knitted back together.
Dr. Michaels nodded in understanding. Looking at the tumbled bedside table and the scattered items on the floor, he pointed at the notepad and pen strewn haphazardly. “I meant, do you want to write it down? We can discuss it that way?”
I merely stared.
He cleared his throat after an uncomfortable minute. “Okay, we’ll leave therapy for another day, how about that?”
Therapy?
I wrinkled my nose. Was that what he thought I needed? Was I mentally ill? A basket case who needed rehab from life?
Wouldn’t my mother love that?
She’d jump at the chance to be my psychologist. The more screwed up her patients, the better.
He held up his hands. “Wrong word. Sorry, professional habit. You don’t need therapy in the normal sense. But I do think you need to talk to someone. You’ve been alone for so long—or at least I think you were alone.” His face whitened. “Were there others? Did Mr. Prest save more than just you?”
His questions fell on appreciative ears that he was willing to chit-chat, but I had no interest in replying. I hadn’t even had the energy to write to No One during my crying purge. The thought of others living what I had hollowed me with grief. I rolled over, tucking the sheet tighter against me.
What happened to the girls I was sold with at the Quarterly Market of Beauties? Were they still alive or mostly dead by now?
“Okay, I know when a social call isn’t wanted.” Michaels rubbed his thighs. “However, before I go, I must ask you to sit up. I need to inspect your tongue and discuss a few other medical issues.”
I looked over my shoulder. Now I’d stopped crying, all I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep for decades and wake up a better person, a saner person, and someone who had no aversion to speech so she could blurt out her story and move on.
“Please?” The doctor motioned for me to sit, even grabbed a pillow from the floor (only half unstuffed), and fluffed it against the ruined bedhead. “If you don’t mind, we’ll get it done as quickly as possible.”
Not wanting to disappoint him, I slid upright and settled against the pillow. The sheet fell around my waist. I didn’t think anything of it.
Michael’s gaze flickered to my chest for the barest of seconds. He cleared his throat then resolutely locked eyes with me. Any sign of a normal hot-blooded man vanished under the authoritative presence of a doctor who had seen patients in all stages of undress.
“May I?” He scooted closer, hoisting a bag I hadn’t noticed onto the bed beside him.
I didn’t nod, but he must’ve seen approval in my eyes because he reached forward, running his hands over the glands in my neck and gently prying my mouth open.
I allowed it, holding my breath as he inspected my stitched tongue.
I watched his face carefully, wanting to catch any worry or concern he might have on the status of my healing.
His face tensed.
I stiffened in response.
“You have a cut on the left. Did you bite yourself while eating?”
If there was a time when I should start answering questions, it should be now, but my body language remained silent.
He let me go, grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, and put them on. Once hygienic, he gently opened my jaw again and touched my tongue, running expert fingers over the hack job Alrik had done, and hopefully, the stitch job that would ensure it would be as if it’d never happened.
“The swelling has gone down but not as fast as I hoped.” Michaels drew back, his face softening. “Not coping is understandable after everything you’ve been through, and it’s best to get it out. I’m glad you gave yourself time to do that. If you want help sleeping, I can prescribe you something, and if you have intolerable pain, I can help with that too. However, what I can’t help with, and it’s entirely on you, is how fast you wish to recover by eating well and resting often.”