THE DAY I MARRIED MY NIGHTMARE..

CH 9..

Beatrice jumped to her feet, the milk crate clattering to the floorboards as she rushed over, her face turning a sickly, ghostly pale.

"What about the child, Nico? Speak to me!"

"She went across the boundary... to the main avenue to look for you, Soteria," Nico wept, his head shaking back and forth in pure, unadulterated agony. "She was crossing the street... and one of those high-society luxury vehicles, it didn't stop! It was going too fast! It slammed straight into her, Soteria! It hit her so hard..."

The world went entirely, deafeningly silent.

The warmth of the kitchen, the smell of the garlic, the sound of the crackling gas stove, everything dissolved into a blinding, suffocating white noise. In my mind's eye, all I could see was Marta's tiny, bright face, her oversized wool sweater, the way she had clung to my waist after I saved her from the nightclub booth.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice dropping into a deadly, trembling whisper, a cold, lethal panic seizing control of my entire body. I gripped Nico's collar, pulling him close until our foreheads nearly touched.

"Nico! Where is she?!"

"The municipal medics... they arrived," Nico sobbed, his chest rattling. "They rushed her to the nearest major facility across the river... to the central clinic. The state emergency hospital. She’s bleeding, Soteria... they said she might not make it through the night!"

Before Nico could even finish the sentence, I broke. The collective trauma of my entire existence, the terrifying reality of the elite world clashing against ours, and the raw, maternal desperation to save the little girl who relied on us for survival exploded into a feral frenzy. I didn't care about my conditional release. I didn't care about Judge Edward Ashford’s warning that a single misdemeanor would bury me alive for ten years.

"Baby, wait!" Beatrice screamed, her voice full of panic as she reached out to grab my arm.

But I was already a creature of pure, reckless instinct. I ripped myself away from her grip, kicked the shattered back door completely open, and vaulted into the dark, freezing alleyway. I threw myself onto the rusted green bicycle, my boots slamming down onto the metal pedals with a bone-crushing force that sent the chain rattling violently into the night.

I pedaled like a madwoman, my lungs screaming for air as I tore through the dark, twisting maze of the slums, racing toward the blinding lights of the wealthy district, heading straight back into the jaws of the elite monster to save my little girl.

The wind was a freezing knife against my face as I pedaled through the dark, the metallic rattle of my loose bike chain sounding like a frantic heartbeat echoing the terror in my chest. I didn't feel the ache in my raw knuckles or the agony in my bruised ribs. All I could see was Marta’s small, soot-stained face. All I could think of was her fragile body being shattered by some careless, wealthy monster who hadn't even bothered to look at the street beneath their luxury tires.

I crossed the bridge over the river, leaving the pitch-black alleys of the slums behind as the towering, clinical white lights of the grand state psychiatric and emergency hospital loomed ahead. It was an imposing fortress of glass and polished marble, a place built for the elite, where street rats like us were only ever tolerated if we were delivering their clean sheets.

I didn't even brake. I skidded onto the pristine white-gravel entrance, letting the rusted green bicycle flip over and slam against the pavement as I sprinted toward the heavy glass double doors.

"Marta!" I screamed, bursting into the grand, suffocatingly sterile reception lobby. The sharp, bitter scent of rubbing alcohol and industrial bleach hit my nose, choking the breath from my lungs.

"Where is she?! Where is the little girl from the industrial district?!"

My voice shattered the quiet, prestigious atmosphere of the clinic like a brick through a mirror. Several wealthy patrons draped in tailored coats turned around, staring at my torn clothes, my wild hair, and the angry purple bruise swelling across my jaw with immediate, aristocratic disgust.

Two uniform-clad security guards instantly stepped out from behind the grand mahogany reception desk, their expressions hardening into masks of pure condescension.

"Get back, girl," the larger guard barked, stepping directly into my path and resting his heavy hand on his baton.

"This is a private, high-class medical facility. Vagrants and street agitators aren't permitted past the lobby. Leave immediately before we call the municipal state police."

"I am not leaving!" I shrieked, my chest heaving as I tried to dodge around his massive frame, my fingernails digging into the smooth marble of the counter.

"A twelve-year-old girl was brought here by the medics! She was hit by a car! Marta! Tell me where she is or I swear to God I will tear this entire building apart brick by brick!"

"Restrain her," the desk administrator

muttered coldly, not even looking up from her ledger.

The guards lunged forward, their heavy hands clamping down onto my bruised shoulders, dragging me backward away from the doors. The collective trauma of my entire existence, the memories of the holding cells, the heavy chains, and the feeling of being utterly helpless against the power of the wealthy, exploded into a feral, desperate frenzy. I kicked out violently, my scuffed boot catching one guard squarely in the shin, making him howl in pain as I ripped my shoulder out of the other’s grip.

"Don't you touch me!" I roared, my eyes blazing with a dangerous, volatile fire as I backed toward the main corridor.

"Tell me where my little girl is!"

A young, tired-looking resident doctor in generic blue scrubs hurried out from the double doors of the emergency wing, hearing the chaotic commotion. He looked at the guards, then at my frantic, tear-streaked face.

"Wait, let her go," the doctor ordered, waving the security guards down. He stepped toward me, his voice carrying a clinical, professional calm that did nothing to soothe the screaming panic in my soul.

"Are you the family of the child brought in from the avenue boundary?"

"Yes! I'm her sister, I'm her guardian, I'm everything she has!" I lied desperately, my voice cracking as I grabbed the lapels of his white coat, my hands shaking violently.

"Please. Tell me she's okay. Tell me she's alive."

The doctor’s expression shifted, a heavy, devastating shadow falling over his features that instantly made the blood freeze in my veins. He didn't look me in the eye.

"She is alive, but she is in a very, very critical condition," he said softly, leading me rapidly down the long, white-tiled hallway as the security guards watched us with narrow eyes. "The impact caused catastrophic trauma. She has severe internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen, fractured ribs that have compromised her lungs, and a deep cranial concussion. We have her on full life support, but she has slipped into a profound, fragile coma. To be entirely honest with you... her body is too small for this kind of trauma. She might not make it through the night."

The words hit me like a physical blow, stripping the air entirely from my lungs. A choked, ragged sob escaped my throat as he pushed open the heavy swing doors of the intensive care unit.

There, lying in the center of a cold, metallic room surrounded by rhythmic, weeping monitors and a web of clear plastic tubes, was little Marta.

She looked so incredibly, heartbreakingly small beneath the stark white hospital sheets. Her beautiful, bright face was covered in deep purple contusions, a thick white bandage wrapped around her head, and a mechanical ventilator forcing air into her chest with a cruel, artificial hiss. The fiery, energetic little girl who had clung to my waist after the nightclub riot was completely gone, replaced by a fragile, fading ghost.

I collapsed onto my knees beside the bed, my raw, calloused hands gently reaching out to touch the only part of her arm that wasn't covered in needles.

"Marta," I whispered, the tears finally cascading down my cheeks in a desperate, burning flood as the rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor echoed through the sterile room.

"I’m here, baby. Soteria's here. You have to fight. Please... you can't leave us."