Every day I crucify myself Who: Nish, Chris, Rafael, Lucas What: Nishka is rushed to the hospital after a suicide attempt. Where: Nish’s apartment, LA County Hospital When: Late Monday afternoon/evening after this thread.
Jessica checked her phone again for the hundredth time, staring at the long line of increasingly desperate sounding text messages she’d sent to Nishka over the past 8 hours. She’d arrived to work on Monday to find the place empty, no evidence that Nish had been there, no messages, nothing moved since they both left on Friday. It wasn’t that weird to her, sometimes Nish liked to sleep in, or take an impromptu day off, so she texted her just to find out which one this was and went on about her day. And then again, and again.
But by 4pm she was really starting to worry. Nish was always very prompt with letting her know if she wouldn’t be in, for whatever reason. This was not like her at all.
Chewing on her pen, she reread all of her texts, and then started looking around for contact numbers, finding to her surprise that she didn’t have any beyond her cell phone. A sense of dread was starting to take over now - Nish lived alone, if something happened to her there’d be no one around to know. Making a split second decision, she started thumbing through Nish’s client contacts, discounting each name until she got to one, dialing it immediately. They were friends outside of work. If anyone knew what was going on, he would.
“Hi Chris?” she asked when the phone picked up. “I’m sorry to bother you, this is Jessica at Nishka’s office...I was just...I was wondering if you’d seen her?” She tried not to sound too nervous, but did a terrible job.
Chris was half asleep on his couch, catching a quick nap before he had to be out and about again. Jessica's voice was familiar, her question hurried and muddlesome in his mind. Slanted brows met in the middle of his forehead, trying to comprehend what she'd asked.
"What? No. I mean, a few days ago. Look, this really isn't a good time..." His voice was thick, sleep-laden, unsure. He still felt bad about the things he'd said, and no one in his gang seemed any the wiser about what had happened with Nish's journal entries. It wasn't like they frequented the building, as far as he knew. One hand rose to wipe at his face.
Jessica sighed in frustration, her fingers worrying a piece of paper on her desk. “It’s just...she didn’t come into work today. I haven’t heard from her since Friday...I’m starting to worry. This isn’t like her.” She paused, biting her lip, “I’m sorry, I just...I didn’t know who else to call.”
Chris moved to sitting on his futon, body slanted forward in the dim light of his apartment. He put one hand to his head, trying to rub sleep away from his eyes.
"Where's the last place you saw her? Or heard from her, I guess." He struggled to make himself feel more present, the phone scraping against his skin as he stood with his cane, making his way across his apartment.
“At work on Friday...she was going out to dinner with her boyfriend.” It was automatic, because she’d been running it through her head all day. “I’ve been texting her all day, and I even tried calling but her phone is off. She never misses a day of work, not without texting me first.” She checked her watch, “it’s almost four o’clock and I still haven’t heard from her.” She was trying hard to keep the panic out of her voice but the longer she was on the phone the more worried she was getting.
The sound of splashing water could be heard as Chris made his way into the bathroom to try and wake himself up. He had listened to Jess's explanation quietly, finally only heaving an annoyed sigh at the end.
"I'll go up to her apartment and see if she's there." And I could contact Rafe, maybe she's with him, which would be just wonderful, he thought grimly. He prayed that Nish was just sleeping off a hangover in her apartment and he wouldn't have to interact with her beau. A simple, short interaction that would leave him with the rest of his day unmolested.
“Thank you so much!” Jessica said, relief washing over her. “Please let me know if she’s okay, you can call me on this number, it’s my cell.”
After nodding an affirmative, Chris detached himself from the phone, finished some kind of morning routine to wake himself up and threw on a fresh shirt. He changed from his cane to his brace, lurched to the kitchen for a banana and then started making his slow but constant way out of his apartment and down the hall. His mind ran through scenarios: Nish was with Rafe, in his apartment on the first floor, so caught up in their relationship that she'd forgotten about work. Nish was at the courthouse, and had simply forgotten to give Jess an update. Nish was sleeping off a hangover in her apartment. There were a million reasons why Nish hadn't been heard from, and though he was incredibly hesitant to show face at her apartment after the way he'd acted over the weekend, he'd do what he said he'd do.
As the elevator doors dinged open on the fifth floor, Chris was holding a banana peel and limping in the direction of 502, which thankfully wasn't terribly far. He had his phone in his pocket, but a physical meeting would be better. He knocked, and waited. Knocked again, and waited. After more than five minutes passed, he would have been certain that she wasn't home, but an odd thought pushed him to try the doorknob. It turned, which was the first red flag. Nish didn't seem like the type to leave her door unlocked on purpose; Chris pushed the door in tentatively.
"Nish?" He took a step into the dark apartment, eyes darting from the hallway to the kitchen entrance, over to the living room. "Nish, you home? You're freaking Jess out. Hello?"
Nish was lying facedown on the couch, still in her pajamas from when Chris visited two days ago. An empty bottle of aspirin lay on the floor below her open hand, an empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table right next to a CD case with the last dusting of white powder and a razor blade. Candles had long since drown in their own wax. Bear was curled up on the couch by her feet sleeping, haven given up on trying to wake her. Some time ago her body had tried to expel the chemicals that were slowly killing it, and now it stained the pillow under her cheek. Her cell phone was on the coffee table, turned off with the battery yanked out of it. She didn’t respond to Chris pounding on her door, or opening it, or calling her name. Her skin was ashen, burning up. And she was barely breathing.
Chris moved further into the living room, eyes going wide at the sight before him. He muttered a curse in Spanish, pulling his phone out of his pocket and nearly dropping it as he quickly dialed 911.
He limped forward, coming to a half-crouch, half-kneel by the couch as he pushed Nish with both arms to her side, away from the vomit. Bear hissed, unhappy to have been disturbed, and jumped down from the couch. Chris paid him no mind.
"I need an ambulance," Chris said into the phone, gently shaking Nish. "Nish? Nish, I need you to wake up. Yes," he said to the call center operator he could hear on the other side. "Yes, I need paramedics, I think my friend overdosed." He rattled off the Pax Letale address, rising to his feet as he tried to move Nish onto her back and fumbled. She didn’t move, didn’t wake up, but shifted limply where he repositioned her.
The operator kept Chris on the phone, asking him questions about her condition and issuing instructions until the ambulance arrived. Is she breathing, is she responsive, what did she take, how much?
Five minutes later three paramedics found their way down the hall, two coming into the apartment and one setting up the stretcher in her front hall. One of them immediately zeroed in on Nish, assessing her condition and giving her CPR.
The other pulled Chris away from her, off to the side. “You’re the friend who called?” he asked, glancing at his notes from the dispatcher, “Chris?” He shifted, trying to block Chris’ view to keep his attention on him and not on what the other two paramedics were doing behind him, speaking in slightly quieter voices to each other as they worked. One was busy intubating Nish to keep her breathing while the other was prepping her to be lifted onto the stretcher.
“I’ll need to ask you a few questions,” he said, flipping to a fresh page so he could jot down answers. One of the paramedics behind him was now looking around the living room, picking up the empty bottle and spying the other evidence on the coffee table. “I’m gonna need her name, her age...is there any family we should call?”
Sadly enough, this wasn't Chris's first rodeo with paramedics. He only glanced twice at what the ones behind him were doing -- trying to resuscitate Nish's prone form on the couch -- before centering his attention and where he could be most effective.
"Nishka Bariss," he said to the first, spelling it out. "I...I don't know how old she is, or her family. She's...there's a boyfriend, he lives here in this building. Oh, shit, I need to call her workplace." His phone was in hand, and he quickly texted Jess.
Don't freak, though he knew those words would immediately send a panic through the young woman, found Nish, called paramedics. Will give more details when I can.
He glanced back at the paramedic. "I don't have her boyfriend's number, but I know where lives? Or..."
"If you can just give us his name, we can contact him. Do you know someone who would be familiar with her medical history?"
Chris shook his head, slowly answering a few more questions as he saw the paramedics behind this one moving Nish carefully to a backboard, using counts of three to move her now breathing but still unconscious form.
"Is she going to be all right?"
"We're going to do everything we can," the paramedic assured him, which he knew for the non-answer that it was. He could feel his phone buzzing in his hand, more than likely Jessica calling to get more than the barebones information he'd sent her.
Jessica had been waiting in the office with her cell phone clutched in her hands waiting for Chris to call her back when it buzzed in her hands. Immediately after reading his text she hit the call button, holding the phone to her ear so hard it hurt. “Chris?” she said when she heard him pick up. “What’s going on? Why did you call the paramedics? Is she okay? What can I do?” she barely took a breath in all that time, and despite his text, was most assuredly freaking.
Chris lingered in the hallway as the paramedics wheeled Nish toward the elevator. It seemed like they'd stabilized her for the moment, and he thought they would probably have to pump her stomach at the ER, but he was going to be as light on details as possible, if only for Jessica's sanity.
"Just...just breathe, OK? I found her in her apartment. She did something, but she's gonna be OK. They're taking her to the hospital now. Do you have her family's contact information? They need to talk to someone who's familiar with her medical history."
Jessica nearly fell getting out of her chair, racing towards Nish’s office. “Uhhm...I don’t know...I know she has a brother in Illinois...wait a minute.” She paused, racing back to her desk and shifting files. “She just signed a new Power of Attorney on Friday...she asked me and that weird guy at her building to witness.” She pulled the file out of the pile and flipped it open.
“Oh my god I found her brother’s phone number...she told me she took him out as first place and put him as the backup because he lives out of State. Right now her Power of Attorney is...Rafael Atala? He’s the one the doctors are going to want to talk to.” She didn’t know the name, so she had no way of knowing it was actually the boyfriend she’d heard so much about.
Fuck my life, Chris thought, head rolling back on his shoulders as his eyes closed. "OK. I know him. I can get a hold of him. That's it though. Can you handle the office by yourself?"
Jessica hesitated for a moment, looking around the office as if it would suddenly fill with people. “I think so,” she said. “I’ll just tell people she’s sick.” She paused, at a loss for a moment, and then kicking back into work mode. “Hey, the doctor’s going to want to see the POA; If you want to pick it up I’ll wait around until you come by.” She wouldn’t do this for any other client, but she knew Nish would be okay with it, they were friends, after all. As she was talking she started neatly folding up the paper and stuffing it in an envelope for him.
"Yeah, I'll be there soon." He clicked off the line with Jess and moved to dial a number he didn't think he would ever dial again; Rafe's name lingered in his contact list, unerased and forgotten for the most part until his finger moved to tap it and dial.
He brought the earpiece up, waiting for Rafe to answer.
Rafael answered on the second ring. His greeting was muffled, as though the speaker brushed too close to his mouth. In the background, the steady stream of a television's white noise carried through. He tried again, having checked the phone's display and found himself equal parts curious and confused. "Chris? What's up?"
A long moment went by, and Chris squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to speak.
"Are you sitting down?" He waited for an affirmative, hearing concern mirrored in his own voice. "Nish is in the hospital. She overdosed. I don't know if you know, but she was using." He hurried forward, before Rafe could ask any questions. "I found her, called 911, she's in the ambulance now on her way. She gave you her power of attorney."
Rafael swore, but it was clear by his voice he was already moving. Another scratch sounded against the receiver as clothing moved across it. He had too many questions and not enough time; he slammed and locked the apartment door as he asked what few he could.
"Which hospital? Are you still there? Do I need to get a bag for her, or...?"
"I didn't go. But I have to swing by her office. Yeah, a bag would be good. I'm... I'm still outside her apartment. LA County is where they took her." The fact that he hadn't ridden along in the ambulance niggled at him in the back of his mind, but he knew it for the better option that it was. If she said something about her source, he'd be in deep shit before he could blink. After the journal, he wasn't sure he could trust her to keep that kind of information to herself, her career choice notwithstanding. "But yeah. That's it." His throat suddenly went dry, and he tried to unsuccessfully swallow.
Rafe latched onto the one bit of good news Chris could offer. His footfalls echoed through the lobby; he was clearly headed outside already. "If you're here and her apartment's open, can you get her a bag? I really need to be there. And feed Bear?" His voice went thready, and nearly broke. "Please, Chris."
Chris swallowed back an exasperated sigh, but nodded before realizing he needed to verbalize his agreement. "Yeah, I can take care of it. I'll meet you at the hospital. If that works."
"Mmhm." A car door slammed. "Thanks, Chris. I'll make it up to you." Rafael ended the call without another word, his mind firmly elsewhere.
* * *
The ER was relatively quiet when Nish was brought in. Lucas was dealing with a deep laceration when one of the nurses grabbed him and told him about the patient coming in. It was, unfortunately, pretty routine to have at least one OD per week, so all the preparations and shouted orders were like the words of a song he'd heard enough times to get sick of it.
They pumped her stomach, fed her charcoal, put her on IV fluids and hoped for the best. It was always the way with these things, it was usually up to the patient to fight, to want to live, but this one...he wasn't sure. He had seen a lot of patients swallow pills for attention, or by accident, but he just knew this one meant it. She didn't want to come back.
Once they had her stabilized he checked the tests that had come back from the lab with a frown. “Is the family here?” he asked the nurse. She shook her head. “The boyfriend is in the waiting room though,” she offered. He sighed and flipped through her chart again until finding what he was looking for and nodding, then he wrote something down and gave Nish’s chart back to the nurse. “Draft the consent,” he said and then headed out to find him. He checked with the duty nurse and then called out, “Rafael Atala?” looking around the room for the man.
Rafael rose from the creaking plastic seat. His rising shifted the bag that rested between his feet; his hands clasped a bottle of water, squeezing its sides. "Yes?" He smoothed a hand over his button-up, a rumpled, light-green thing he'd had no time to iron or otherwise make presentable. He might have shaken the doctor's hand, but he kept it tightly wrapped around the bottle as if to steady himself.
Lucas made a quick assessment of the man, his expression, his clothes, his movements, and then nodded to himself as if he'd just proven himself right. He guided the man a little away from the waiting room so they could speak in relative privacy. “I'm Dr. Peters,” he said, though he was sure the name wouldn't stick. “The nurses told me that you have power of attorney for Nishka,” he said, though he’d already glanced at the form attached to her chart. He used his patient's first name for Rafael’s benefit; more familiar, and he’d found it gave the family a sense that the doctor actually cared about their loved one. He sighed slightly and tried to choose his words carefully.
“We managed to get a lot of the drugs out of her stomach, but she knew what she was doing. There's still too much of it in her system, and if we do nothing she'll have organ damage.” He paused when the nurse came discreetly up behind him and handed him a clipboard. “I know this is a lot to take in at once, but we need you to consent to dialysis. It...filters her blood so we can get the drugs out of her system faster.”
Rafael blinked dumbly. The words power of attorney continued to ring in his head. Close on its heels was the knowledge she may have done this intentionally. His knees felt weak. For the first time in years he wished desperately for [Freyja] to be by his side, to help him come to the best conclusions in the shortest amount of time. But she was not, and Nish needed him. His jaw worked uselessly as he searched for the right words.
"Right. Yes. Yes, obviously." He looked to the clipboard. Having something to do seemed to center him. "Okay. Do I need to sign something, or…?"
Lucas watched the other man's reaction closely, and then nodded. “Okay. Yes, there's a consent form,” he said, offering the clipboard to him and pulling a pen out of his coat. He waited for the other man to take it from him and sign, and then looked him in the eye. “We're going to do everything we can,” he assured him. “She's going to be okay.” Other doctors might not have said that, saying that it was too soon to know, but he knew.
He nodded. "Okay. Um." Rafael raked a hand through his hair. It fell back in tousled clumps in front of his face, briefly obscuring his darting eyes. "Can I see her? Or… where should I wait?" He gestured back to the chair, where her bag still waited. "I brought some things for her."
Lucas glanced at the bag and back at him. “She's being moved to a room right now,” he said, flipping through the other papers on the clipboard. “Room 4203 on the fourth floor. I'll have someone come and get you when she's there. It should only be a few minutes. Once she's moved we'll set up the dialysis machine and she'll be on it for a few hours. We'll know then if she did any permanent damage.” He paused and sighed, hoping he hadn't given the man too much to think about. “I know you can't hear this right now, but try not to worry. I think…” he knew, “she needs to feel hope right now. She needs a reason.”
Again Rafael nodded. He could not hide his discomfort at the situation. He had no idea what might make her feel hope, no concept of what would be reason enough for her to carry on. He was unfit for this duty, grave as it was. But he stepped back, nipping at the swell of his lower lip. "Thank you," he said. Then he returned to his seat, slumping in the chair, his folded hands resting between his knees.
Flashes of her dream were still fresh in her mind. The two doors and the warm golden light she’d walked into, bits of conversation, and a name. Loki. The voice finally had a name.
She looked around herself, but almost immediately her head and her stomach started to hurt and she grimaced, taking in a deep breath only to become aware of the tube in her throat. She panicked, the feel of it in there suddenly too much to tolerate, and she began shifting in bed, her hands coming up to try and pull the tube out.
"Hey." Rafael's voice was soft, but it carried in the quiet room all the same. His hand wrapped loosely around her wrist. He held her hand away from the thin tube, grasping her tightly. "Don't do that. You're okay." Only when he was certain she would not try again did he let go of her, and return to his seat beside her.
He drew a deep breath, tired and unsteady. He tried to smile, but it fell flat. "Hey. How are you feeling?"
Her hand stilled when he touched her, and she let him pull it away. She was still uncomfortable, but she forced herself to relax, to focus on Rafe instead. He looked tired, careworn, sad. And looking at him made her heart hurt along with the rest of her. She reached out, took his hand as hard as she could, though her grip was weak. Without thinking, she tried to speak, but found she couldn’t.
As if on cue, Lucas came in to check on her. He’d gone home in the meantime, had a good sleep and come in to find that his patient had done remarkably well overnight. He glanced at Rafael with a sad smile. He could see in his eyes that he hadn’t had more than a brief nap.
“Good morning, Nishka,” he said with a slightly brighter smile, but subdued enough to be considered respectful. She watched him as he had a look at her chart and checked the monitors, nodding. “Your O2 stats look good, I think we can get that tube out of there now,” he said, coming closer and guiding her gently through the process. Once it was out and she’d stopped coughing he adjusted her bed so she could sit up comfortably and handed her a glass of water.
He flipped to another page in the chart, this one an evaluation. “Okay, I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay? Do you know what city you live in?” She cleared her throat a few times, though it still sounded scratchy when she answered.
“Los Angeles.”
“And can you tell me how old you are?”
“Thirty-Five,” she said with slight hesitation.
“And what’s your middle name?”
“Adeline.”
“Okay good, and can you tell me what day it is?” She frowned at him, searching, and coming up blank.
“Monday?”
Lucas smiled slightly. “It’s Tuesday, that was a trick question,” he said, which earned him a small smile. Lucas turned to look at Rafael. “Her tests look good, she’s responded well to treatment. I’m going to order another round of tests to be sure she’s out of the woods and then you can take her home, probably tonight or tomorrow morning.” He gave them both one last smile and then left them alone, closing the door softly behind him.
"Adeline," Rafael said. "That's pretty." She smiled, but it fell quickly.
“It was my gramma’s name,” she offered quietly.
He drew a deep breath. His gaze passed slow over her, as though he might see all the damage she had done to herself. They appeared to have taken good enough care of her, and he trusted her physician as much as he trusted anyone right now. He put a hand to his nape, rubbing at a thin bruise there.
"Chris fed Bear," he said. He reached beneath the seat and pulled out the bag Chris has packed. "He brought this by, too." Her eyes shot up to his in shock, and then followed his movements as she swallowed the lump from her throat, tears forming in her eyes.
“I’m surprised he cared,” she said bitterly and looked away. “I ruined his life, after all.”
Rafael blinked. For a moment he looked like he'd been struck. "I'm sorry," Rafael said. He sat back in the hard chair. His hands pressed against his thighs, fingers splaying over his jeans. "Are you… of everything you said in that journal, everything all our neighbors saw, Chris is the one you're upset about?" And still he sounded more hurt than angry; he shook his head, raking his hands through his hair once more.
She looked away, swallowing again with difficulty, her throat tightening up with tears that haven't formed. “So you believe it too then,” she said, her voice sounding flat, dead. “You really think I could write something like that.”
She'd felt sick when she read the rest of the entries, spotting the forged handwriting immediately, though it had been good enough for everyone else. And then the vicious texts and emails and calls started, from everyone. Even strangers. Everyone but Rafe.
"Tell me you didn't," he said. "Tell me anyone other than you knew. I'll believe you." I need to believe you. After a brief hesitation he leaned up toward her, though his hands stayed where they were.
She closed her eyes, hot tears burning her cheeks. “I didn't. He stole my diary, and forged my handwriting. Changing...adding to what I already wrote.” The utter violation of it still turned her stomach, worse than the shame of having her words exposed to public scrutiny. The idea that he'd stolen and read her diary was bad enough, but the lies were unbearable to her. There was nothing harder to repair than a destroyed reputation.
She opened her eyes again, finally meeting his, letting judge the truth for himself. She didn't even bother to point out that he seemed to have immediately believed what was written when he saw it. She couldn't blame him; after all, it had been a decent forgery, and if the situation had been reversed, she couldn't say for certain that she wouldn't have thought the same. What hurt the most was that he hadn't even asked her for the truth. Chris, at least, had said it to her face.
Whatever he saw in her expression seemed to satisfy him. He nodded slowly, deliberately, as though focusing on that motion might make his agreement feel more earnest. A part of him wondered if, though she had not written it, she might still think such things, might still harbor resentments and concerns she did not deign to share with him. But he gave no voice to these fears, only nodding yet again, and settling himself back into the rigid lines of the chair.
"So who stole it?" he asked. "Who went to all that trouble, to forge entries?" One name came quickly to mind, but in their few interactions Rafael had seen nothing to indicate this was Abel's M.O. Even experiencing for himself what Nish had seen in him, had gotten from him, did not make it easy to believe such petty tricks were of any interest to him. "And are you sure who did it?"
She looked away, down to her hands fidgeting in her lap, swallowing again and wincing when it hurt. Shame written all over her. She nodded when he asked if she was sure. There was no one else it could possibly be.
“Abel,” she said, using his name for the first time. “My neighbour. He's the one I've…” she didn't finish the sentence, didn't want to go there. She paused, steeling herself. “He's doing this to hurt me. Because I told him ‘no’.” It was power, control. A different form of rape. It wasn't her body he'd violated, it was her reputation. Her life. A tear bounced down her cheek, soaking into the sheets in her lap.
"It hurt more than just you," Rafael said. His voice was quiet, but as firm as it had ever been. She nodded, still looking down, another tear falling, splashing on the back of her hand. "You really need to remember that. Even this…" He gestured to the hospital bed, to the monitors chirping their assessment of her. He sighed. "I wish you'd talk to someone, Nish. Get some help. I thought you were having fun with Abel, or whoever else you're with, but now…"
She exhaled and closed her eyes at that, a barely expressed humourless laugh. Whoever else? So he thought there were others? “You think I’m a slut, don’t you?” she said before she could take it back, neatly avoiding any talk of therapists. She’d been through this dance before, she was sure the psychologist was already on their way to talk to her.
“It was fun, at first,” she said, not wanting to talk about this, but not able to stop. Rafael's jaw went tight. “But the longer we…saw each other, the more he started to scare me. It wasn’t just about sex with him. It was power. He’s…not a regular dom.” She remembered the look in his eyes when she met them in the bathroom mirror as he savagely pounded into her. She knew in that moment, as certain as she was of her own name, that he wanted to kill her. And she still believed it.
For an instant they both fell into their own reveries. How well they knew the same things, and how impossible it was for Rafael to ever tell her. Color crept up over his throat, reminding him too well of the bruises that still lingered there. He shook his head, meeting her eyes only with marked effort.
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," he said. "There's nothing bad about enjoying sex or seeking it out or anything else. It's the overdose I worry about, and if this… play with him isn't consensual. That's what I think you need to talk to someone about. I mean that."
She hesitated, trembling slightly from being so vulnerable and exposed, and then met his eyes. “I’m talking to you,” she said, hoping he’d see that for what it was. Raw, naked trust. She sighed and looked away again. “I know they’re coming. They’re going to evaluate me. I’ve been through this before, but...they don’t actually care. Not really.” As fast as their relationship had developed, she was actually a very private person. Talking to anyone she didn’t trust was difficult. Having her secrets exposed was unbearable.
"They don't," Rafael said, "and that's why they'll do a better job than I can. I'm not…" He edged forward, pulling the chair with him, and took her hand in his again. "I'm not good at this, Nish. You need to talk to someone who's objective. Who can tell you how to pull yourself together. I don't know how. I'm still figuring it out for myself." He squeezed her thin fingers. "If you want I can find someone for you. Some of my coworkers have seen people for very similar things. I'm sure there's someone they could recommend."
His warmth invaded her skin when he took her hand and she closed her eyes, squeezing another tear out and enjoying that simple touch. Listening, and then shaking her head at his suggestions, squeezing his hand back. “I don’t want a professional right now,” she said, opening her eyes again to look at their joined hands. Her lifeline. “I just need to know I’m not alone.” More tears prickled her eyes, half-formed and swimming across her vision. She was so emotionally exhausted from everything that’s happened in the past few days, she no longer had control over what she was feeling. Everything hit her now like it was touching an open wound, and all she wanted was someone to help bandage her up.
"You aren't." Rafael's shoulders sagged. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, and the circular conversation did nothing to alleviate that. After a night spent by her bedside, he wanted nothing more than to feed his flamboyant fish and crawl back into the rumpled sheets of his own narrow bed. He patted the back of her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers as he drew subtly away.
"There are people who care about you, Nish. But you have to put in some effort to keep it that way, too. If you don't want to talk to someone, don't. But you have to do something, or you're going to end up right back here."
She nodded but didn’t respond, correctly reading his hand slipping from hers and pulling away from her. “You should get some sleep,” she murmured after a long pause. She looked up at him, feeling exhaustion settle over her just looking at his tired features. “I’ll call you, if they decide to discharge me.”
"I'll pick you up when they do." After rising from his chair, he leaned down over her, gently kissing her sweat-damp forehead. "And let me know if you need anything that's not in the bag. I'll bring it when I come back, okay?" He stroked a lock of hair away from her face. Then he smiled down at her, wishing her a brief goodbye, and made his way out into the corridor beyond.