The Alliance

T H R E E

● V A L E R I E ●

I slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning endlessly coming in and out of sleep. I was plagued by nightmares, some of Wes dragging me to the basement and throwing me in a dark room where I could smell dead bodies all around me, their tortured souls creating a thick fog of sorrow. Then there were the other dreams where I was trying to fight off nurses in the ward, always breaking out of the room only to wind up in an endless hallway. No matter how long I ran I never reached the end of the hall; but the absolute worst ones were of Stark. We would be laying in his bed, laughing, kissing and hugging. His strong arms wrapped around me so tightly I swore he was actually in the room with me. I could smell his spicy sweet scent mingled with a masculinity that was solely him. Could feel the brush of his lush lips over my skin as he whispered how much he loved me. Those eyes of his- the ones that stole my heart the first time I saw them lit up leaving the alleyway, would glow just for me as I traced my fingertips over his cheek and down his strong jawline prickled with stubble. I would wake up with tears in my eyes, my arms feeling incredibly empty, heart wailing at the sight of the empty bed and unknown surroundings. That was the worst part. Waking up to only have my heart break all over again. I had never dealt with true heartache in my life. When Max and I had ended things, I thought I knew pain but I was foolish. Nothing compared to the absence of Stark. My entire body hurt with the remorse, a constant throbbing in my chest that has yet to ease.

I tossed until daybreak began to peak through my windows, but even as I moved around my hands were chained down on either side of me, pulling at my arms in an uncomfortable direction whenever I tried to lay on my sides. I exhaled deeply, trying to blow the blonde tendrils away from my face that slipped over during the long night. Giving up on trying to rest, I lay on my back and stare up at the white popcorn ceiling, watching as the shadows move across it as the sun continues its rise. It has been hours now since I had been taken, but I was sure a whole day had not passed yet. I was mentally logging the events, it had been night when I broke out of that basement with my father John, and still night when Krista dropped me off at the mental institution. My blood boiled at the thought. What was the point of this? To make me suffer? Mission fucking completed.

The doorknob to my room twisted, a lock turning before it was pushed open. A new nurse, one who gave me a cheery smile that looked genuine as opposed to the cruel woman last night, walks in. Her copper hair is combed into a neat bun atop her head. Her brown eyes are warm and kind, crinkling at the sides as her smile grows. She's a little rounder than the other woman had been, but her aura is much more approachable. "Good mornin' suga," she drawls in a southern twang, "you look like you din't rest at all." I frown at her, unsure if this is some sort of act. I keep quiet, deciding to assess the situation first. When I do not respond, she draws up near my bed, looking me over. Her eyebrows crease when she spots the cuffs. "Now why din't they remove those? No wonder you look so uncomfortable." She pulls out a set of keys, flipping through them until she makes a sound of success. "Let's get these things off of you, huh?" I eye her warily, but nothing blares a red flag to me. She unchains me then steps back, folding her hands over her round belly with a grin slashing her ruby lips. "How's that suga?"

Slowly, I draw my hands together, rubbing at the flesh that had been rubbed raw from the cuffs. When she makes no move to leave I sit up and swing my legs over but never let my gaze leave her. "Thanks." I utter lowly. Now that my hands are free, I push my hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear.

"Don't mention it suga," she spins on her heel and walks to a cart parked outside the bedroom door. She brings in a plastic tray of food and sets it down on the table. I watch as she does this, noting how she leaves the door open when she does. Either she is very trusting or she knows I could not possibly make it out of here. Or maybe she underestimates you, a voice in my head whispers. I glance at the door again, then back to her as she lays everything out, her back to me.