Blank Canvas

by Coopmans, Kathy

  “What? I’ve been here two weeks?” I struggle to force each syllable out, but it’s then when I realize it’s just a slur of garbled up gargles.

  “You have to get me out of here.” This time, I hear myself, but the worried, odd look on the nurse’s face is telling me everything I hear is in my head.

  I try to speak, and the pain that ricochets from my mouth to my head lurches at my stomach; it tears through my mouth and sets my skin on fire.

  Oh, my God. It’s floating from side to side in my head. It’s killing me. My skin feels as if it’s being sliced wide open. Stinging over and over. Fire. Hell. Repeat. “I need drugs. Give them to me, please?”

  “She’s having a seizure. Get the doctor in here now.”

  Darkness is an intricate puzzle. It can coat your heart, fill your mind, and leave you uncomfortably aware of your surroundings. I don’t like it at all.

  I’m lying in it. The smell of the deep dark ink is pungent; I whisper silently for the strength to open my eyes.

  It stings when I try to blink. It hurts when I try to breathe. My eyelashes flutter across my skin as I slowly try to open my eyes. The dim light is blinding.

  I close them again, repeating the same cycle until tears form in the corners. My recollection is vague, to say the least, but I know I’m in a hospital. I know my body is shattered and without a shadow of a doubt, I’m about to lose my mind forever. Gone in the wind. Lost forever.

  “She’s not your patient anymore, Hartley,” I hear a man speak in a hushed voice.

  “I know she’s not. Doesn’t mean I’m going to leave her. She needs help.”

  Who the hell is this Hartley?

  I reach into the confines of my memory to recollect his name. Is he a friend of my stepdad’s wanting to indulge? Am I the sacrificial lamb? I tremble and fight even harder to get up.

  “You should go home. Get some sleep. I’ll call you if she wakes up.”

  “I’m good.” His voice is harsh, leaving no room for confusion. “I’m not stepping away. Work around me.”

  Then his face crosses my vision. The man with the expensive watch. The handsome, domineering man who enters the restaurant with a different woman on his arm. He looks different, though, but it’s without a doubt him. My lips try to move, but again no sound comes out. His defined, rugged, handsome shadow leans over me.

  A warm hand engulfs mine. He smiles. Oh, no. I must have said that out loud.

  “Water.”

  It’s the first word to make sense between my teeth clenched tight. My mouth is burning like liquid lava against my tongue, scorching each taste bud until it feels like ashes.

  “Damn it. Step back, Hartley.” A new voice joins the mix.

  One that I don’t like, forcing my body into complete panic mode.

  “No.” His voice soothes the panic deep in my depths.

  “Amelia, your mouth is wired. I’m going to slip this straw through your lips. I want you to slowly try and sip through it, okay?” His voice is as smooth as silk. “Tiny baby steps,” he whispers.

  The timbre voice sweeps across my aching flesh; it soothes me in a way I can’t explain.

  Show me your face, please, again. It reminds me of a hit of meth fueling my veins.

  The straw hits my dry, cracked lips. The plastic scratchy. I take a deep breath. Pull on the straw and suck until the cool liquid hits the dry gravelly sand lodged in the back of my mouth.

  “Good girl.”

  The cold liquid falls like a two-ton brick to the bottom of my gut. His words mingle in, causing me to panic. No. Don’t call me that. The trigger is sharp and painful right to the last piece of my beating heart. I can feel his touch and invasion on my skin when he uses the same exact words those sick bastards who raped me did.

  “Hartley, if you don’t move out of the way, I’m going to have you escorted out of here.”

  Fight or flight kicks in. My voice may not work, but my hands fly up latching onto the man with the lavish watch. He can’t leave me. I feel safe with him. His face was always there when I needed it to be offering a shred of solace. He can’t leave me.

  “No talking. I’ll move to the other side, okay? This is Doctor Lister. He’s on duty tonight. Let him look you over. Listen to him. Do not talk. Your jaw is wired shut. Don’t say a word.”

  It’s a gentle yet firm grip to my shoulder that has me understanding his message. But I need to talk.

  “Lights,” I say.

  Doctor or not, I will not take orders from him or anyone again. That’s the one thing I vowed I would never do again in my life. No man will hold any type of power over me. Not unless I want him to.

  “Stubborn,” he mumbles.

  His body shifts out of my line of vision. When my eyes finally begin to focus in on the entire situation, the full capacity of my condition comes crashing down around me.

  Machines, monitors consume this room. I swallow in wonder. I have questions. So many of them they hurt my head.

  “Amelia, I’m not sure how much you remember. I need you to blink once if you're in pain anywhere, twice if you understand what I’m saying?” He’s old. This Doctor Lister. Gentle eyes. Calming voice.

  My entire body hurts. Every damn thing. My limbs feel foreign. My side is burning whenever I take a shallow breath. I swear to the God above someone is taken every single one of my cells and wrapped them in an age-old rubber band, twisting it tightly. My lungs cease to capture my air, but I tamp it down and dig in a heel.

  I turn to the doctor and blink twice. I hate this. All of it. I’m used to being on my own, and here I am, helpless, void of control, surrounded by people. If I could feel my skin, it would be crawling off my skeletal bones.

  “Good.” He smiles, teeth pearly white. Oh, no. I blink back tears when I remember Ricky knocking some of my teeth out.

  I must be a mess of a woman to these men with my dirty hair and a body unfixable beyond repair. I shouldn’t let embarrassment rule me right now, but it does. It pricks my eyes. It’s been a long time since my thoughts have been clear enough to see my life for what it really is, and now all I really wish is that I had died.

  “Blink once for yes, two for no. Is your name Amelia Elaine Moore?”

  I blink once.

  “Twenty-one years old, date of birth, April 12th, 1996?”

  I blink again. Suddenly, this is all too much. These people knowing my name, my age. I’m scared, so frightened that I allow those prickly tears to seep from my eyes. There has to be a way for me to tell them that no matter what, they cannot bring my family here. I would rather get back out on the streets and die at the hands of Ricky and his people than to allow them to touch me again.

  “My family. I don’t want to see them,” I choke through the frustrating challenge, trying to get those words out of my mouth.

  “We haven’t tried to find them. I promise. We ran your fingerprints to find out who you are. We’ve done nothing to violate your rights. That’s as far as we went. You're safe here. I can promise you that. But I’m warning you right now. If you speak again, you will not heal.” There’s that deep voice again.

  The one that steals my breath and runs away with it.

  “She’s not my patient, but I’ve made her my responsibility. I’m asking for privacy, please. Amelia has confirmed who she is. I can take the rest from here.”

  Doctor Lister laughs low. His voice is going quieter. There’s mumbling as hushed words are exchanged. The longer the two of them discuss me as if I’m not here, the angrier I get over the indistinct pressure building inside of my head. Something is not right about this man who wants to be alone with me. He has an agenda, and everyone with an agenda is dangerous. They violate and use a person until there’s nothing left.

  Except, here I lie, unable to move, with a wandering mind wondering if it, too, is betraying me right now. I feel safe with this man for some unknown reason, and I have yet had time to study his face like I’ve dreamed to.

  “Amelia.” He says my nam
e as if it pains him.

  I close my eyes. I’m scared of the questions rolling around my head like a bowling ball, cracking those pins and striking out. What if this man isn’t who he said he was? What if I’m not really safe?

  “You?” I say.

  Everything falls into place at once. His strong masculine jawline a reminder of exactly who he is. I would recognize him anywhere. He’s been in my drug-filled dreams for months. It’s that one-of-a-kind face that I’ve lived to see even perched in a dirty alleyway.

  It’s him, only his dark locks that my dirty, grimy fingers wished to explore are gone. I desperately wanted to see if they felt as soft as they looked. This look, though, shows all of his features. From the deep set of his eyes to the concerned lines on his forehead, and it makes him look older, more distinguished. Ruggedly handsome. His eyes shine as bright as crystal. His mouth turns up with a smile. He’s beautiful.

  “You're the man from the restaurant. The one with the watch.” His dark brows draw up. He looks down at his watch and back up again.

  “I am. Please, for the last time, I need you not to talk, because your jaw is wired shut and the more you try, the longer it will take to heal. I want you to listen. I’m here to help you.” He lays a hand on my shoulder.

  My head turns slowly to see his large palm covering me. His watch is right there, that lustrous bastard. I have just enough energy to reach up and smooth my thumb over the cold metal. It feels good. It could get me so much. It would numb away all the pain. God, I need that watch.

  That is until he jerks his hand away from my touch. Just like them, he’s proving his authority.

  My tears turn to anger. Heat simmers, smoke arises, and the blood in my veins boils.

  “Amelia, I’m going to explain some important information right now. It’s clear you don’t want your family contacted, and I’m here to support your privacy. With that being said, there’s some extensive surgery you need and a private donor willing to cover all the costs.”

  Does he think I’m that stupid? This is my reality? Private donor, my ass. It’s him. Surgeries won’t change my life. I have nothing. This doctor is a savior trying to fix me to make himself look good. I know how they are. These rich fuckers who claim to be saints are nothing but self-centered commoners. The same as me. Except, they take advantage. They twist the knife, and they expose their true colors one way or another.

  It takes me several long moments to soak everything in while the doctor talks about plastic surgery on my nipple, dental work, and he goes on and on about the changes, the opportunities, and the lies this could do for me.

  Finally, he holds out a paper attached to a clipboard with hopeful eyes shining down on me.

  “If you agree to have all this work done here at Mercy Hospital by some of the best surgeons in the area, then you’ll just need to sign this consent form. We’ve run extensive tests on you as well. All your blood work has come back clean, clearing you of an STDs, AIDS, and any other complications. You’ve been given nourishments through this IV here.” He points, then perches on the side of my bed, not pushing the topic aggressively. He’s hopeful, though; I can hear it in his voice.

  “I can’t even begin to comprehend how confused you are right now, Amelia. You’ve been through an unthinkable torture. The silver lining of it all is, there is help out there, and that is what I want to offer you. After your surgeries, when you’ve healed enough, I have a spot secured at the Peaceful Palm treatment program. This is your chance for a new life.”

  A new life? Where the fuck does he think I’ll go after I’m all fixed up? Right back where he found me, that’s where.

  I hate him.

  He scrubs his hands over his face then peers down at me with a contemplated expression. I’m not sure if what’s coming next will be a good thing or bad. I’m still reeling from everything else he’s told me. Liars. All doctors are. Every one of them.

  “I’m blurring professional lines here, Amelia. Invested way too much with helping you. Can’t explain it, and the only thing I would change is that you and I would have met before this happened. But here’s the bottom line. There’s this powerful hunger deep inside me to help you. If I could just wave a wand and fix you, I’d do it. You deserve more than that alleyway.”

  And there it is. The truth. He wants to parade me around. The poor white trash who was picked up beaten to death right next to a dumpster.

  “Look what Doctor-do-good, did.” “Oh, isn’t she lovely.” “Bless you, doctor.” Fuck him. I didn’t ask for his help.

  I reach for his watch again, gripping it tightly. The feeling underneath my fingertips surges a desire within me for a hit so high to make everything go numb. He wants to help me and is opening himself up to me. He’s so full of shit it reeks over the top of the pungent antiseptic in this hospital.

  I’m going to ruin him. I’ll get out of this bed, get close to him, and then take him for every penny he has. I’d be set up to run, find a new town, and a new dealer.

  Hell, maybe I’ll become one myself.

  I slowly nod my head telling him I’m in. He helps me grip the pen as I scrawl my name out on each highlighted line. A name I haven’t written in years.

  The longer I’m in a conscious state, the more powerful the urge to use develops, and this gorgeous man is my ticket.

  It doesn’t matter what he says or does. Or how he makes my brain want to bend to her omission. No one. Not anyone in this world dishes out acts of kindness for simply nothing at all. He wants to use me. Well, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome with the sentimental eyes and the smell of success, you will never change me. My life was altered the minute two men touched me when I was too young to understand.

  I’ll get what I need. I’ll go to this rehab, and when I come out, I’ll fuck him over before he gets the chance to fuck me himself.

  5

  Amelia

  Forty-Five Days into Rehab

  What a sick and twisted fucking joke my life is. Bits of memories from the night Ricky nearly killed me drift in and out of my semi-conscious mind.

  The handsome doctor and his promise of bullshit are sketchy, but it to flutters like a lonesome butterfly about to die.

  It’s the wicked punch line to the joke controlling my surroundings.

  The ting of the plastic silverware scraping across plates, bowls, and cups in the dining area irritate the fuck out of me. My skin itches, it crawls and burns daily. Nightly. I want out of here. I need to be high.

  God, how I wish this knife in my hand were sharp, pointed, and those tiny little segregated jags my fingers are scraping across would slice my skin.

  One second, the pain inside my crawling skin is too much, the next it’s not.

  I’m going to fucking die in this place.

  These pathetic people drinking the Kool-Aid of a promise spoken that everything will be just fine when leaving their treatment are crazy. All so optimistic and energetic about their recovery, and it just makes me so angry. I want to stand up and tell them all ‘Good luck’. That the majority of them are just like me. You’ll be back on the streets, begging, fucking, and degrading yourself within a day after walking out of this place.

  The fucking pills in a cup they serve me at each meal do nothing for my need for a high. I’m drowning, and I really don’t give a shit if the quicksand in my brain suffocates me. Isn’t there anyone in here who can help me get high?

  “Amelia, you need to eat more.”

  I smile at him, tamping down the urge to flip him the bird, dump my tray, and walk down to my room.

  Ronan McDaniels, my therapist. Old enough to be my father. Yet wise enough to stare me down. To try and intimidate me. It isn’t going to happen. I’ll never allow it.

  He’s kind and caring to put up with all the shit I dish at him. Over countless sessions, with him talking and me pretending to listen, we’ve made no headway at all. The fucker is determined to crack the safe around my skull. To try and get into my head. Well, he should know by now th
ere isn’t room for him there. There’s barely enough room for the scattered thoughts that climb out of every crevice in my mind.

  They haunt me, tempt me, and beg me to scratch the flesh off my skin.

  I’m dying in here.

  I glare at him. He glares at me.

  “Fuck you,” I say, stand without touching my food, and leave the unwelcome noise and faces that are clanking around me.

  Stomping like a spoiled child to my room, I walk straight to the mirror covered in a plastic film looking at my reflection. I laugh so loud from not only my scary reflection but everything surrounding me in this place. There are no sharp objects anywhere. Not even the dressers have screws to hold on the knobs that were once there. No towel hangers. No toilet paper holders. And good luck with trying to break a window, because there aren’t any in my room.

  I stop laughing and gaze at myself. It makes my stomach somersault with a torrid assault of sickness. I look so much like her. The one who was weak and allowed her body to be tortured. It’s the Amelia who once loved painting, basketball, and believed in life.

  “I hate you, Amelia Moore,” I whisper.

  My skin begins to crawl, everything rapidly spirals out of control, and I just want it all to stop. Raising both hands to my face, I sink my nails into the tender, healthy flesh at the top of my cheeks. Slowly, I drag my nails down my face, leaving torn flesh and rivers of streaming blood behind. This makes me smile at the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are full of hope, while her mind is full of hatred.

  “There, you dumb bitch. That’s more like it.”

  The lower I go, the further I sink my nails into my skin, causing as much damage as possible. It’s the opposite effect of numbing my body, but it takes the remnants of the old Amelia away. I hate her.

  There’s a knock on the doorframe quickly followed by Ronan’s appearance. There’s no such thing as doors in this shithole. It’s a damn good thing I can’t stand to be behind one, or I’d lock them all out.

  “Amelia, it’s time…”