My Whole Truth

hero

1

The air is dead with the stench of blood.

Mine.

His.

A high-pitched quavering pierces my ears and I scramble backward, convinced he’s still alive, he’s still going to get up, and he’s still going to kill me.

But he doesn’t.

It’s me. I’m the one making the raspy dying noise.

My wounded leg collapses under me and I drag myself away from the ground-meat mess I fear could still rise up and attack. I tumble headlong down the hayloft stairs, leaving a swath of blood in my wake.

Horses snuffle and stamp their feet in their stalls and I still can’t stop making the dying noise.

Using hay bales for leverage, I force myself up into a world that’s spinning far too fast. I’m going to faint. But I know if I faint he could still get me, could still kill me. I throw myself at the tack room door and lock myself in before collapsing in a quaking mess against the hollow door.

The lock is nothing more than a push button on the knob and it’s so inadequate I start to laugh.

I laugh.

Covered in blood, almost certain that a dead man rests above my head, and I can’t stop laughing. Then just as suddenly I’m suffocating, gasping short, sharp breaths that do nothing to fill my lungs. My heart is a broken metronome. Each pulse throbs in my ravaged eye and in my leg like a prisoner desperate to break free.

This is panic.

I can’t afford to lose it. Some tiny part of my brain knows that and screams for order. I inhale, counting—one-hippopotamus, two-hippopotamus, three-hippopotamus—and exhale with the same slow count. It takes four rounds before the stars recede from the edge of my vision.

I wipe more blood out of my good eye and take stock. My riding pants are a mess of crimson. I reach up and drag a saddle pad down from a rack, then press the thick white cloth hard against the angry flesh.

There’s too much blood. Blood on my breeches and soaking my T-shirt from the waterfall of my face. I swallow the nausea and press my tongue against the back of my teeth. I will not be sick. I will not be sick.

I know my phone is in here. It always is, because even though I should keep it on me when I exercise the horses, I don’t. My breeches don’t have pockets and I don’t believe in storing things in my bra that aren’t boobs.

Of course it’s as far away as possible, clear on the other side of the room, sitting on top of a container of horse supplements. But the room is tiny, and between the saddle racks and grain bins, I have enough to lean on. I grab the phone and slide to the floor. My leg vibrates with pain.

In the glossy black of the unlit screen I catch a glimpse of my reflection and my heart jackrabbits away. My curls are plastered to my cheek with blood. I don’t know why I do it, I know it won’t help, but I hit the button to activate the front-facing camera and use the phone as a mirror.

I’m a figment of my own nightmare.

The dying noise starts in my throat again.

My hands shake enough to dislodge the phone and it tumbles to the wooden floor. I snatch it back up, exit out of the camera, and tap the phone icon. It takes three tries to key the right numbers.

911, what’s your emergency?

What is my emergency? I’m breathing too fast to talk, to think.

911, what’s your emergency? the woman repeats. Hello?

I need help, I whisper.

What’s your emergency, ma’am?

I can’t say it out loud, not while panic is a noose around my throat. I need help.

Can you tell me where you are?

At work. 143 Summers Road, in the barn. The door is locked, I say and I’m crying now, salty tears mixing with salty blood. Please come. Please come get me.

I need you to calm down, the woman on the line says. Her voice is soothing and I find myself not wanting to make her mad at me.

I know, I know, I’m sorry, I say in a rush, because I do know. Freaking out isn’t helping. It takes everything I have to speak. I need help.

What’s your name?

Seelie Stanton.

How old are you, Seelie?

Seventeen. Please, I need help.

Okay, honey, take a deep breath. Another. My name is Maya and I’m going to get you some help. But I need you to tell me what happened so I know what you need. Are you hurt?

I cry harder. Yes.

What happened?

Got attacked. The words are tiny, scared things in my mouth. He had a knife. I’m bleeding a lot. Please come help.

There’s a rattle of typing and the woman says, Someone attacked you with a knife?

Yes.

Where is this person now?

I don’t want to answer. If I don’t say it, maybe it doesn’t have to be real.

Seelie, are you safe now? Is the person still there?

He’s here. Not a lie. I start to hyperventilate, stars roaring toward me.

Okay, honey, just stay calm. Deep breaths. I have an ambulance and police on their way to you now. You said you were in a locked room?

I nod, even though she can’t see. I’m locked in the tack room. In the barn.

Honey, I need you to stay calm and stay on the line with me. Stay right where you are. Does your attacker know where you are?

No. He doesn’t know anything anymore. But I don’t say it. Can’t say it.

That’s good. Tell me about your injuries. The ambulance is only a few minutes away. Stay on the line with me.

He cut my face, I say and my voice sounds shrill. Panic is pushing in again. Stabbed my leg. My eye. I don’t think it works anymore. Please, I’m bleeding a lot.

Help is almost there. Can you describe your attacker?

It was Shane Mayfield. I know him. Knew him. He went to my school. The words taste like pennies. It was Shane.

You’re sure?

Yes.

Sirens sound in the distance and I sob with relief. The saddle pad is soaked through with blood and I can’t help but think it’s ruined. Such a mess. I’ve made such a mess.

The ambulance is almost there. Keep the door locked until they get there, she says.

I don’t think I can get back to the door, I say, new tears flooding my good eye. I’m too far away.

Maya is unfazed. That’s okay, they’ll get to you. What kind of lock is it?

It’s just a stupid button, the regular kind like for a bedroom. A lock like that would never have saved me. The sirens are louder now. I hear them.

That’s good. They’re going to take care of you, honey.

Thank you, I whisper.

You’re welcome, honey. Now when they–

I hang up on her, even though I know I shouldn’t, because I have something to do that’s more important than her final instructions. I open my contacts folder and select the group marked Faction and quickly compose a text to send to the three of them: Avengers assemble. Harrington ER. NO PARENTS. I hesitate, needing to explain more but not knowing the best way. I add Attacked. Need you.

The message has barely sent when there’s a hard knock at the door that startles me enough that I drop the phone. I pray the text went though.

Seelie Stanton? Paramedics, a deep male voice announces.

I’m here!

The dispatcher said you can’t get to the door. Is that correct?

I can’t. I’m sorry. I wipe blood and tears from my face. I’m shivering hard and my teeth clatter together when I speak.

Not a problem. Stay where you are. We’re going to break the door open.

The hollow door explodes inward to reveal the paramedic. If anything about my appearance shocks him he doesn’t show it. He’s a big guy, both tall and broad and he takes up so much of the small tack room that I don’t know how he’s going to get me out.

His partner passes him a long, narrow backboard.

We need to get you onto this, he says, placing it on the floor.

Okay, I say. I don’t want him to touch me, so I scoot myself down and onto the board. Ribbons of pain lace up my leg and I yelp. He arranges the straps and grasps the handholds by my head while his female partner lifts the end at my feet. They gently deposit me onto a padded gurney in the barn aisle and wheel me out of my nightmare.

Cop cars decorate the area outside the barn, painting the air with red and blue lights. I know I need to say something. As the EMTs push me by, I reach out for an officer. The gurney stops and he comes over.

Please call Elaine Burgess, I say. This is her farm. I work for her. Someone has to be here for the horses.

Not what I planned to say at all.

Is your attacker still here? the officer asks, ignoring my request. Three other officers are making their way into the barn, guns drawn.

He’s upstairs, I whisper. Constellations swirl around me and my teeth chatter hard enough that I couldn’t say more if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

Get her out of here, the cop says to the paramedic and disappears into the barn.

I hear the heavy boots pounding up the stairs, then shouting.

Not real, not real, not real.

The stars close in and finally the world goes dark.

2

I wake with a start.

If I could kill my brain, I would. My brain is a terrorist.

I mean, I have nightmares a lot, but this one was just uncalled for.

I blink, squinch my eyes shut against light that is far too harsh, and grope for my phone. What time is it?

The realization comes in less time than it takes for my brain to send the signal to move my arm.

The light . . . not sunlight.

Not my room.

Not my bed.

Not a nightmare.

–––––––

There are too many people around me, although I can feel them there more than I can see them. Everyone is moving so fast, calling out orders that sound like a foreign language. Tubes run into the back of my hand, making it burn. I desperately want to go back to sleep so I can wake up and have this all be a dream.

But it’s not.

Ah, there you are, says an olive-skinned nurse.

At least I think he’s a nurse, even though he definitely doesn’t look like any nurse I’ve ever seen before. He’s young, with a stubble-coated jaw and tattoos covering both arms beneath the short blue sleeves of his scrubs. Eyelashes most girls would be jealous of frame kind eyes, but I don’t want him near me.

I think if he touches me I’ll scream, and though he doesn’t deserve it, I say so. Or try to. My voice has been ripped away; my mouth moves like a dying fish but no sound comes out. I try to clear my throat but the words strangle me.

You’re okay now, he says, smiling. My name is Aram and I’m the physician’s assistant. You’ve been in shock, but we’re taking care of you now. Do you remember what happened?

I nod, but I don’t want to remember.

Is there a number we can reach your parents at?

I already called, I lie. I don’t want my mother here. Not when I’m like this. Before 911. She’s on her way.

Okay, good. Our focus is on cleaning and closing those lacerations, but now that the shock has worn off, I wanted to ask one more time if you are experiencing any pain besides the wounds on your leg and face? Abdominal pain? Sharp pain when you inhale?

Once he says this, I am hit with a vague recollection of answering a string of earlier questions, but recalling their specifics is like trying to remember a dream. I breathe deeply, feel nothing sharp, and confirm the injuries he’s already aware of.

That’s what we thought. We’re getting you ready for surgery now, he says and must see the panic on my face because he continues quickly. You’re going to be fine. Really. That wound on your leg just needs a little more attention than we can give it here. I imagine it’s starting to feel better already, though, right?

I realize it’s true. In fact, my leg doesn’t feel bad at all. There’s a sense of pressure but the lightning bolts are gone.

We’ve already given you painkillers and something to help you relax before the surgery. We’re going to get that leg all cleaned up and—

Suddenly my hand flies to my face. Someone I can’t see on my left side catches my wrist and pushes it down.

My eye? I croak.

The person holding my wrist moves into my line of sight. Another pair of blue scrubs, this time on a motherly-looking woman. We’re taking care of that too. But I need you not to touch it, she says. Just lie still.

She disappears again, but I can feel her doing something to my forehead. I want to sit up, I want to run, but the very thought of moving exhausts me.

The doctor is prepping for surgery now, Aram says as if I hadn’t interrupted him. It scares me that he’s not acknowledging my eye. The anesthesiologist will be in momentarily to finish getting you ready.

I don’t want drugs, I say, panic edging back in. I’ve never been under anesthesia before, but when Ashlyn had her appendix out the side effects made her violently ill. I have an extreme phobia about being sick. Extreme enough that it overrides all my other worries. Please, can’t you just stitch it up here? Please, I don’t want you to give me any more drugs.

I need you to lie still, the woman I can’t see on my left reminds me, hands holding each side of my head.

You don’t need to be afraid, Aram says. It’s very safe. There’s quite a bit of debris in the wound and the muscle needs repair. You’ll be much more comfortable if you’re asleep.

I don’t want to throw up, I confess, feeling like a baby. I know how stupid this is. I really do. Especially right now. But the thought of being sick is worse than the thought of someone digging into my leg while I’m awake.

Oh, we can take care of that, he says, dark eyes crinkling with a reassuring smile. He turns to a laptop sitting on a high rolling stand and starts typing. I’ll tell the anesthesiologist to bring you an anti-nausea patch.

That makes me feel a little better, but not totally.

A sudden racket from outside stops me from thinking about it.

You need to go back to the waiting room, a woman says firmly.

My sister is in there and I want to see her, someone demands. Someone who is most definitely not my brother.

Finn.

I struggle to sit up, no longer caring about the people tending to me. The faction is here and that’s all that matters.

Finn! I cry, voice raspy and desperate. I’m light-headed and the room closes in. I collapse back on the bed, fighting to keep from passing out. Whatever drugs they’re giving me are no joke.

Sir, your sister is being prepped for emergency surgery, the official-sounding woman says from the hall. You can see her when she comes out.

Please, ma’am, I understand you’re busy and trying to help her, Lyssa says, voice straining as she tries to sound calm. But can we just see her for a minute? Just one minute and then we’ll go to the waiting room.

And who are you? she asks.

Her cousin, Lyssa lies.

And I’m her sister, adds Ashlyn. Another lie. And Ashlyn never lies. It’s against her religion. Literally. She must remember this and amends, We’re her family.

That’s not a lie.

That’s the only thing that matters.

The door swings open and I get a glimpse of Ashlyn’s pink hair as a short woman in pale green scrubs and a paper hair cover comes into the room with a small cart.

I turn my head to Aram, begging. I need to see them. They can come in. I want them to come in.

He looks conflicted and I think he’s going to let them in. Instead he introduces the anesthesiologist as she places a sticker behind my right ear.

Your anti-nausea patch, she explains briskly. She plucks a syringe from her cart and fills it from a small vial of clear fluid.

Please let me see them, I say again, to her, to Aram, to anyone who will please just listen to me.

From the hallway, I can hear the other woman explaining that this is a surgical ward and that they’re welcome to sit in the waiting area, but they can’t have this kind of noise in the halls.

The anesthesiologist inserts the needle into the port that’s taped to my hand. Cold floods up my arm as she presses the plunger. You’re going to start to feel very sleepy, she says. I want you to breathe deeply and not fight it.

For a moment I don’t feel anything and then I’m falling through the bed. I do exactly what she warned against and fight it. I don’t want to give in. Not yet. But unconsciousness overtakes me without caring what I want.

3

When I wake, perhaps for the first time, but probably not, I’m parked in a room with several other people, fading in and out of consciousness as the anesthesia works its way out of my system. Doctors are talking, issuing instructions I don’t heed. Something about staying quiet and still.

I fade out.

Time is funny here.

At one point I’m aware of being curled up on my side, sobbing, not caring if the whole world hears.

I fade out.

Gentle hands are on me and I flail about, trying to dislodge them, my body still not in sync with my brain. My throat is impossibly raw.

I fade out.

My brain is clearer now and that’s worse. So much worse. I want oblivion back. I close my eye, courting the blackness.

I sink.

–––––––

My hospital room is nothing like the ones on TV. It’s tiny; only my bed, two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, a small square table, and a narrow, curtainless window that shows nothing but a slice of inky sky. The cinder-block walls are painted a sickly, tired yellow that looks all the worse under the dim lighting.

I’m flat on my back, and there’s a contraption dangling from the ceiling that keeps my leg raised in a sling. I try to wiggle my toes and am flooded with relief when I can. That has to be good. A deep ache lurks above my knee, but whatever is being pumped into my IV is working its magic because the pain is nowhere near as bad as it was before.

Before.

Oh god.

As soon as I remember before, cramps spasm my gut and I feel an aching hollow collapsing my entire being. I guess the IV is good for more than just pain, though, because I don’t lose it. I want to, but I don’t.

One hand is still a mess of tubes and tape, and I liberate the other from beneath the stiff white blanket.

Moment of truth.

Gingerly, I explore my face. Where I expect to find ravaged flesh, I find only soft, dry bandages.

This does nothing to make me feel better.

Oh good, you are awake, says the portly, gray-haired nurse who comes into the room. She’s dragging a rolling computer stand behind her like a reluctant dog. I thought so. How you feeling, sugar?

I drop my hand from my face. She’s as wide as she is tall, but she doesn’t let that stop her from wearing scrubs covered in a rainbow of flowers, and she strikes me as the kind of old lady with a couch full of hand-stitched pillows, but funny ones, with sayings like Friends Are Like Snowflakes. If You Pee on Them, They Disappear.

I try to answer and start hacking instead. The nurse tuts and raises the back of the bed so I’m half-sitting and hands me a plastic cup of water. Her name tag swings forward on a lanyard bedecked with ladybug pins: Francine Baker, RN.

Sip slowly, she warns.

I do and I think I have never felt anything as wonderful as the cool liquid soothing the fire in my throat. When I finish I hold the cup out for more.

Sorry, baby, got to take it slow. Let’s make sure that stays down, then we’ll see about a refill, okay?

I nod. There’s no way I’m letting it do anything except stay