One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“Piper?” I don’t recognize the voice calling out to me, but my eyes flutter again.

When they open fully, the overhead light blinds me, and I’m forced to squeeze them shut again.

“Can you dim the lights?” the unfamiliar voice says. “She’s going to be sensitive to light for several days.”

“Piper?” That’s Mom’s voice, and just the sound makes tears form in the corners of my eyes. “Can you hear me?”

I nod my head, just a quick up and down because my body is screaming from pain. Every movement is like getting pelted with rocks.

“Wh-where am I?” I manage.

“You’re in the hospital,” the person other than my mom answers. “I’m Dr. Columbus. You were in a motor vehicle accident. You sustained a pretty serious concussion. You also have a severe sprain to your left wrist and several fractured ribs. You’re pretty banged up all over, but you’ll make a full recovery.”

It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be whole. I shouldn’t be good as new after a few weeks of healing. Not while the other person in the car with me is…

I try not to let myself think of him again, but the memory of wondering what it would be like to drive us over the ravine hits me hard. A choked sob escapes my lips, and warm fingers wrap around my right hand.

“Shh, baby. It’s going to be okay.” Emotion clogs my mother’s throat, and I wonder how she can make promises right now.

She should be well aware of what I’m facing. I can only hope that they will let me heal before they cuff me and cart me off to prison.

“What’s your pain level?” Dr. Columbus asks. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Thirty-five,” I groan because it’s true. I think even my hair follicles hurt right now.

“I’ll get the nurse in here with some meds to ease that,” he assures me.

What seems like hours later, a soft voice tells me that she’s administering pain meds into my IV, but I don’t have enough time to thank her before I slip back into my nightmare.

The wreck is on constant replay in my head. The guilt hits me when I’m awake, and the sight of Dalton being carried past me by the rescuers invades my dreams. Even in my mind, I correct that they’re not performing a rescue at that point but a recovery. A lump lodges in my throat at visualizing his gray, ashen face covered in blood. His sandy-blond hair is so saturated with blood that his matted locks look black. He’s motionless, his once hostile mouth slack and not showing any sign of the trauma he’s suffered.

In my dream, I sob. I cry for the man he’ll never become. I grieve for his family and the pain they must be feeling with his loss. And as much as I hate to admit it, I weep at the knowledge that the boy that had made it his life’s mission to ruin me still has the ability to do so from the grave.

Each time the accident and the aftermath replays in my head, the regret and anguish only multiply. It doesn’t diminish or dilute as I relive it over and over. If anything, it gets worse. It doesn’t change, even when I want to reach out for him as they carry his body away. Even as I have the foresight of what’s going to happen while still driving the car. I still get angry at his hateful words. I still pay more attention to him than the road in front of him. We still go over the edge, and he still dies.

I suffer through this over and over and over, and by the time I wake up again, my body hurts more than it did the very first time I woke up to face my new reality.

When I whimper, the hand I didn’t realize was holding mine clenches tighter. Rather than open my eyes and beg for more meds, I focus all my attention on that single contact. From the size and the warmth, I’m certain my mother is the one holding on to me. She’s tethering me to the here and now.

“We just don’t know yet,” a defeated woman says from the other side of the room. “The doctors said all we can do is wait. The swelling hasn’t shown any sign of diminishing. How is Piper doing?”

My already dry throat turns into a desert when my brain allows me to recognize the woman talking. How is Dalton’s mom so calm, asking about the girl who killed her son?

“She’s in and out,” Mom whispers.

“Will she be okay?” Mrs. Payne asks.

My mother’s fingers tighten on mine, and I wonder if it’s guilt that makes her pause for a long moment before answering. She waits so long, I begin to think the doctor was lying to me about my recovery prospects.