Chapter 3: Stillness in the Waking Hours
1536 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, letting my breath shallow and even, playing the part perfectly.
“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 night shift, but it could’ve been reflex.”
“Hm.”
That single sound sent my nerves screaming. It didn't sound good.
I felt him step closer. Even with my eyes shut, I could sense it—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.
“Miss,” he said quietly. “If you can hear me, squeeze my fingers.”
I didn’t move.
Gosh, I wanted to. 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.
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, he pressed a thumb against the inside of my wrist. It wasn't painful, but it was far too intentional to be an accident.
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.”
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, I remained paralyzed, my skin damp and crawling with the heat of my own nerves.
Okay. Rule number one: less twitching. I couldn’t afford mistakes.
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?”
“No,” a nurse replied. “She’s still unresponsive.”
“Unresponsive how?” he pressed. “Like… completely?”
I could picture him clearly: hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw clenched with impatience.
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.
The doctor stepped in. “Mr. Griffiths.”
Aiden’s voice smoothed instantly. “Doctor. Any update?”
“There’s progress,” the doctor said 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.”
My chest tightened.
My anger boiled. Who the hell was he to decide what I would want?
“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 likely, right? She’s not going to come out of this and remember everything.”
The doctor hesitated. “That is possible, yes.”
“Good,” Aiden said under his breath. “Then we’ll have a clean slate.”
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?
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 scent of his cologne.
“Sera,” he whispered. “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 grieving husband with the doctor as the audience.
“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 too, Sera.”
The doctor’s silence was deafening.
Aiden straightened. “When can we take her home?”
“Home?” the doctor repeated. “Mr. Griffiths, she’s not ready for—”
“I have a nurse arranged,” Aiden interrupted. “Round-the-clock care. I want her somewhere familiar. Somewhere she can feel safe.”
Safe? Under the same roof as him and Marielle? That wasn’t safety. That was a prison.
Marielle’s heels clicked as she stepped closer. I smelled her 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.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
“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 make it soon.”
My vision blurred, hot tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, soaking into the pillow. I bit down hard, trapping the sound in my throat. I couldn’t let them hear me.
Their footsteps moved away, then the door clicked shut.
They left, but I knew that wasn’t the end of it.
Silence again.
It didn't bring me any relief because I could still hear Aiden’s words echoing in my head.
He was moving fast.
Later, when the ward quieted, a nurse leaned over me. “Sweetie? Can you hear me?”
I stared into the dark behind my closed eyelids.
She lifted my arm, let it drop gently. “No response,” she murmured, jotting something down.
As she turned away, my leg jerked slightly.
She froze. “Doctor?”
Crap!
The doctor was back in seconds. “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 before I could stop them, sliding down into my hair.
The nurse gasped. “She’s crying.”
The doctor didn’t react like he’d won something. He just nodded slowly, like a man confirming a theory.
“She’s aware,” he said. “On some level.”
I forced my breath to come in shallow, jagged hitches, making it sound like my lungs were starting to fail.
That night, after everyone left, the doctor came back alone. No nurses around.
He sat beside my bed and spoke quietly. “Miss, I'm Dr. Ezra Cavanaugh. You’re doing a good job pretending.”
My heart stopped.
“Don’t react,” he added immediately. “Just listen.”
I stayed perfectly still. Inside, hope and terror were knotted together so tightly it actually hurt to breathe.
“I don’t know what you’re afraid of,” he continued, “but I know this—they want you moved out of this hospital. Soon.”
My jaw clenched.
“And you don’t want it,” he said. “That much is obvious.”
He stood. “I’ll slow things down as much as I can.”
Footsteps moved away.
I lay there in the dark, tears soaking the pillow, my heart pounding with one clear truth burning through the fog.
This hospital was the only thing keeping me alive.
And they were trying to take it away.
I stayed awake until morning.
Pretending not to be.
- Writer
