Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Keane

I’m lying in this godforsaken hospital bed, staring at the ceiling tiles that blur and sharpen with each blink, waiting for someone—anyone—to walk through that door and tell me what the hell is going on.

My memory’s a mess. Feels like someone took an ice pick to it, carving out pieces and leaving nothing but jagged edges and empty holes. Faces, places—they drift in and out, flickering like a half-lit sign I can’t quite make sense of.

But there’s something, someone, I’m supposed to remember. Someone important. Every time I close my eyes, I see the faint outline of her, feel her name resting on the tip of my tongue. All I know is that she’s not here and I feel lost.

Well, no one is here. Just the nurses and doctors who shuffle in and out, poking, prodding, asking questions I don’t have answers for.

What day is it? How can I know if no one has told me since they transferred me from wherever I woke up to this forsaken hospital.

Who’s the President? Like I keep up with politics. I just know the Queen of England because we played a concert in London a couple of years ago. Other than that I don’t give two fucks about the leaders of the world. The only thing that matters is my music. Now they could ask me what was the last song that hit the top 100 list and I . . . Fuck, which song was it?

The lack of answers feels just as dreadful as when they ask if I can tell them where I am.

All I want is to scream back at them, to tell them I’m the one who needs answers, that I’m the one stranded in this fucking nightmare. But the words . . . they don’t come. My brain fires them off, fully-formed and ready, but somewhere between there and my mouth, they vanish. My jaw tightens, my throat burns, but nothing— nothing —comes out. Just empty air, a strangled noise that’s nowhere close to what I need to say.

They keep testing me, day after day. At least, I think it’s been days. Time feels like sludge, stretching and collapsing in on itself. Maybe it’s only been hours since I woke up in this sterile prison. Maybe it’s been weeks. I have no sense of time. Everything I thought I knew feels . . . scattered, like fragments of a life I can’t piece together.

Right now, I feel like some kind of experiment. If one more person shines a light in my eyes or asks me to squeeze their hand, I swear, I’ll . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do. My mobility’s fucked up, too. They ask me to squeeze, and I can barely make my fingers twitch. They ask me to repeat words, and my mind understands, but my mouth . . . my mouth won’t listen.

Half the time, I don’t even understand what they’re trying to get from me, and when I do, it’s like trying to shove boulders through a straw just to get a single word out.

And no one’s telling me anything. They come in with their clipboards, their pitying looks, and then they leave me here—stuck in a body that won’t respond, with a mind full of questions screaming at me from the inside.

Where the hell is everyone? Where are my parents? They have to know I’m here. They’re the ones who would’ve . . . They’re the ones who . . .

Fuck. I can’t even remember what they’re supposed to have done. Are they in Connecticut, or off traveling as usual? Dad’s probably on tour, and Mother . . . she’s probably ignoring everything, everyone, like always. Maybe I should call the nanny? Do I still have a nanny? Am I too old for a nanny, or not old enough to handle this shit alone?

How old am I?

Rowan. Someone call my older brother. He might be able to fix this. Or not, since he doesn’t give two fucks about me. Only when my parents force him to hang out with me or when I fuck up.

Why the hell do I remember pointless crap like that but can’t even remember what day it is?

And then, there’s her . The memory of her feels like a bruise—something tender and aching that I don’t understand but can’t shake. She should be here, shouldn’t she? She’s supposed to . . . supposed to . . .

The rage boils up, hot and suffocating, a silent scream trapped in my throat. I want to tear these wires off, rip this hospital gown to shreds, get up and find someone—anyone—who can tell me what the hell is happening. But I can’t even ask a simple question. I’m trapped here, drowning in my own mind, while they watch me like I’m some tragic case study they’re trying to solve.

I close my eyes, fists clenched at my sides, and think of her. Ophelia, yes that’s her name but who is she? She’s the one thing that feels solid in this fog, the one thread I can hold onto. I don’t know if she’ll come. I don’t even know if she’s real. But right now, she’s all I have.

So I wait.