"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
"I… I shot him."
Those are the last words I remember saying.
And then nothing. Just blackness. A silence so thick I can feel it pressing down on my bones. No screams. No sirens. No regrets.
I wake up to white.
A white ceiling, white sheets, and white light flooding my eyes like punishment. My throat feels like sandpaper, my lips are cracked, and my head God, my head is pounding like I've been hit by a train.
No, not a train. By him.
A nurse stands beside the bed, her expression unreadable. She doesn't smile. She doesn't frown. She just watches me like I'm something fragile. Or dangerous.
My right arm is strapped down, not gently but tightly like I might lash out. My left leg is bandaged, propped up awkwardly, throbbing with dull, electric pain.
I think I broke it.
No.
He broke it.
My brain feels like it's been scrambled and fried. Nothing is in order. My memories are like shattered glass. I try to move, but every joint screams.
"Where am I?" I whisper, my voice cracking.
"You're at Mercy General," the nurse replies. Her voice is soft but firm, practiced. "You've been here for three days."
Three days?
There's movement at the door.
A uniform. A badge. A man with a notebook in one hand and cuffs clipped to his belt. A police officer.
Oh, God.
I feel it now, the weight on my wrist. I try to lift my left hand and can't. It's cuffed to the bed.
"Why…" My breath hitches. "Why am I cuffed?"
The nurse doesn't answer. She looks at me with something like pity. Or maybe it's just my shame staring back at me.
"What happened?" I croak. "What…what happened to him?" I ask memories from a few days ago flooding my head.
Her lips part. She hesitates. That pause makes my blood run cold.
My face feels swollen and puffy like someone inflated it with punches. My jaw aches when I move it. My body… hurts.
But all I care about is him.
What happened to him?
I close my eyes and force myself to remember. The last thing I saw wasn't his face, it was his fist curled. Coming at me. Again. And again. And again.
Slamming me into the wall.
Throwing me across the room like I was nothing.
Tearing my soul out piece by piece.
And then…
A click. A flash of metal. My hand trembling. My fingers curled around the cold steel. The way it felt like it belonged there.
I pulled the trigger.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
Three times.
I shot him. I remember now. I shot him.
Did he die?
Oh God, did I kill him?
I start screaming.
Not words just sound. Broken, shattered sound. The kind that comes from somewhere too deep for language.
The nurse jumps, trying to calm me. I thrash against the restraints, panic crashing through me like a tidal wave.
"Ma'am, calm down please"
"What happened to him?" I yell. "What happened to him?! Is he alive? Is he alive?!"
I'm sobbing now, the kind of sobs that rip through you and leave you hollow. I don't even know what I want to hear. That he's dead? That he's alive?
He hurt me. Over and over. Left bruises where no one could see. But I still want to know. I still want to know if I killed him.
I didn't want to shoot him.
I just
Snapped.
The officer walks in. Heavy boots. Hardened eyes. He glances at the nurse, who nods once and steps out.
"Ms. Thomas," he says.
That's me.
Talia Thomas.
The woman who called 9-1-1 and confessed to a crime.
"You've regained consciousness," he notes, flipping open his notebook. "That's good. We've been waiting."
I look at him, terrified. "Is he dead?"
He watches me for a beat too long.
"Are you charging me?" I ask, panicked. "Am I under arrest?"
"You're not in a condition to be questioned yet. You need medical clearance first."
"Just tell me if he's alive." My voice cracks again. "Please."
The officer exhales through his nose, unreadable. "He's alive. He was taken to a different hospital. He's in critical condition."
I go completely still.
Alive.
That word washes over me like cold rain. I don't know if it's relief or dread. I feel both. And neither.
He's alive.
That means he can talk. That he can tell his side.
And I know what his side will sound: charming, smooth, full of lies. He's been lying for years. About everything. To me. About me.
He'll paint me as unstable. Violent. Delusional.
He always said I was crazy.
But I don't think about the bruises. I don't about the the broken ribs, the cigarette burns, or the way he'd smile while hurting me.
I don't think about the time he locked me in the basement for two days without food. Or when he ripped out a chunk of my hair because I didn't answer my phone fast enough.
But in court, who do you think they'll believe?
The beautiful man with a broken collarbone?
Or the woman in a hospital bed, screaming and cuffed?
He once told me I looked pretty wearing the bruises he gave me, and for a while, I believed him.
The nurse returns with a sedative. I don't fight her. My body is already too tired to resist. But my mind is racing.
"What happens now?" I whisper.
She looks at me.
"What happens to me now?"
I'm not sure if she hears me or if she just doesn't want to answer. She injects the sedative slowly like she's been doing this too long to flinch anymore.
My eyelids grow heavy. The walls blur.
What happens now?