Chapter 3: Stillness in the Waking Hours
1797 Words
- SERAPHINE
“Vitals?”
“Stable. Still minimal response.”
“How minimal is minimal?”
The footsteps reached me before the voices did. It was a familiar rhythm I knew by heart when I was trapped in a hospital bed.
I didn’t move a muscle and remained dead weight, leaving my breath shallow and even, playing the part perfectly. I was a master of the mask now.
“Doctor?” a nurse asked quietly.
The doctor spoke next. Calm and measured, his tone was far too guarded to be mistaken for friendly. “Any change overnight?”
“No seizure activity or unexpected spikes. She moved her fingers once during the shift, but the night nurse thinks it was just a reflex. The body’s way of twitching in the dark.”
“Hm.”
That single sound sent my nerves screaming. It didn't sound good.
I felt him step closer. Even with my eyes sewn shut by bandages and crust, I could sense the subtle shift in air, the way his presence leaned in instead of hovering away like everyone else’s. His fingers brushed my wrist, checking my pulse with a firm, measuring touch.
“Miss,” he said quietly. “If you can hear me, squeeze my fingers.”
I didn’t move.
Gosh, I wanted to grab onto that voice and never let go, to prove I was still here, still breathing. But I kept my body slack and unresponsive, my hand heavy in his.
Every instinct screamed at me to grab him, to beg for help, but I knew the walls had ears and the shadows had eyes.
I couldn’t ruin the act. Not before I knew what really happened that night, before I understood how the crash had happened and who had been pulling the strings.
A beat passed.
He didn't release me right away. Instead, his thumb pressed firmly against the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist. It wasn't painful, but it was far too intentional to be hurting. He was insisting for a reaction.
My fingers twitched slightly.
A stupid reflex I couldn’t stop.
The nurse sucked in a breath. “Doctor—”
“I saw it,” the doctor said calmly. “Document it as a localized motor reflex. Nothing more.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I forced myself still, every muscle screaming as I went limp again.
The doctor straightened. “Let’s give her another assessment this afternoon.”
“Do you think she’s—”
“I think,” he interrupted gently, “that brains do strange things when they’re healing.”
Their voices drifted off as they walked away. Even after the click of the closing door,
As their voices drifted off and the door clicked shut, I remained paralyzed as I felt the heat of my own terror prickling my own nerves.
Okay. Rule number one: stop twitching. I couldn’t afford mistakes. My life depended on being a statue.
Everything moved in a weird, slow-motion haze after that.
Nurses came and went. Someone adjusted my IV. Someone else wiped my face with a cool cloth.
I let it all happen, focusing on breathing slowly and shallowly, like my body barely remembered how.
Then voices again. Aiden’s.
“She hasn’t woken up yet?” His voice was tight, vibrating with a frantic kind of impatience.
“No, Mr. Griffiths,” the nurse said. “She’s still unresponsive.”
“Unresponsive how?” he pressed. “Like… completely?”
I could picture him clearly: hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw clenched.
He was wearing his concerned mask while his mind ran the numbers, calculating exactly how much more time he’d have to waste on me.
I could hear him pacing, his leather shoes squeaking. I knew that sound. It was the sound of Aiden calculating his next move.
The doctor stepped in. “Mr. Griffiths.”
Aiden’s voice smoothed instantly. “Doctor. Any update?”
“There's progress,” Dr. Ezra’s voice cut in evenly. “Small movements. Reflexes improving.”
“That doesn’t sound like progress,” Aiden said. “That sounds like false hope.”
I almost laughed.
“It means her brain is active,” the doctor replied.
Aiden exhaled sharply. “With all due respect, Doctor, she wouldn’t want to live like this. Not trapped in a bed, not knowing if she would be alive or dying. It’s cruel.”
My chest tightened.
My anger boiled. Who the hell are you to decide what I would want and when I'm done?
“We’re not there yet,” the doctor said firmly.
Aiden’s frustration was almost visible. “But we will be. Soon.”
Then came the part that really got my blood running cold.
“So, what’s the next step?” Aiden asked. “Memory loss is a sure thing, right? She won't come out of this and... remember everything?”
The doctor hesitated. “That is possible, yes.”
“Good,” Aiden said under his breath. “Then a clean slate is exactly what she needs.”
What clean state did he want to turn me into? Into someone who wouldn't ask questions? Someone who wouldn't remember they were trying to kill me?
Oh heck! He wanted to wipe me clean of the murder he’d committed.
Aiden’s footsteps started toward my bed. He stopped right beside me, close enough that I could feel his body heat. I could even smell the faint, metallic scent of his cologne. It used to make me feel safe; now, it makes me want to gag.
“Sera,” he whispered as if he made sure none heard it, including the doctor. “If you can hear me… I’m here.”
I wanted to open my eyes and scream at him. I wanted to claw at his face until he bled.
But I stayed perfectly still, listening as he played the act for the doctor.
“It’s hard,” he continued, his voice full of an emotion I could tell was totally fake. “Losing them all… and now you. We can’t lose you, either.”
The silence was deafening.
Aiden straightened. “When can we take her home?”
“Home?” the doctor repeated. “Mr. Griffiths, she’s not ready for—”
“I’ve already arranged the staff,” Aiden interrupted. “A private nurse. Round-the-clock care. I want her somewhere familiar. She'll be safe at the estate.”
Under the same roof where he and Marielle whispered about my death? That wasn’t a home. It was a slaughterhouse.
Marielle’s heels clicked as she stepped closer. Her scent hit me first before I heard her. “We’re just worried about her quality of life,” she said softly. “This place… It’s cold. She’d be more comfortable at home. Familiar surroundings might help.”
My pulse spiked.
The doctor didn’t answer right away. I could feel him thinking again.
“She’s safest here for now,” he said finally.
Aiden scoffed. “Safest? She’s surrounded by machines and strangers.”
“Trained professionals,” the doctor corrected. “And hospital protocols.”
Marielle let out a long sigh. "She’s my best friend, and we’re family. It kills me that she has to suffer just because of my mistakes."
Family? What the f**k!
The word really made me feel sick.
She didn’t even wait for the doctor to answer before speaking again.
“It’s my fault,” she said, her voice breaking just a little too perfectly. “I was the one who forced her to come along, even with the car packed and the roads slick. I practically dragged her to her death.”
A sob broke from her throat. I could almost see her dabbing at her eyes, playing the broken survivor for the doctor’s benefit.
“If she doesn’t wake up soon,” she whispered, her voice shaking, “I don’t know how I’ll live with the guilt.”
She sounded devastated. Absolutely convincing.
And hearing her mourn me like that made my stomach turn.
But the horror hit me like a second crash: Marielle hadn’t been in the car.
So how the hell were they telling the world she was a survivor? How did they bend the story into this? How much of my life had they already rewritten while I lay here bleeding?
My teeth clenched.
“We’ll discuss that when she’s more stable,” the doctor replied. “For now, she needs some space. I'm afraid visiting hours are strictly limited.”
Aiden let out a tight sigh. “Fine. But I hope it's soon.”
When their footsteps moved away and the door finally closed, I couldn't hold it back anymore. A single, hot tear escaped from the corners of my eyes, leaking onto the bandages and soaking into the pillow. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted the copper tang of blood, desperate to keep the sob trapped in my chest.
Later that night, when the ward fell into a deep, eerie silence, a nurse leaned over to check my vitals. “Sweetie? Can you hear me?”
I stared into the blackness of my own eyelids.
She lifted my arm, let it drop gently. “No response,” she murmured, jotting something down.
As she turned away, my leg gave a sudden, violent jerk.
She froze. “Doctor!” she called out.
Oh crap!
Ezra was there in seconds and leaned on the bed. “What happened?”
“I think—her leg moved.”
The doctor crouched beside the bed. “Miss.”
“If you’re in there,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
My throat burned. Tears leaked out from under the gauze before I could stop them, sliding down into my hair.
The nurse let out a muffled gasp. “She’s crying. She’s awake!”
The doctor didn’t react like he’d won something. He just nodded slowly, like confirming a theory.
“She’s aware,” he whispered, more to himself than to the nurse. “On some level.”
I forced my breath into jagged, hitching gasps, making myself look weaker than I was. I had to stay alive. Because as the sun began to peek through the hospital blinds, I realized the most terrifying truth of all.
Marielle Thatcher was telling the world she was a survivor of the crash. She was wearing my name, my grief, and my husband.
If the world believed she was the one who walked away... and they believed the girl in this bed was just a brain-dead best friend with a shattered face...
Then, who was the world mourning in the empty caskets next to my family?
- Writer
