Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

“Dad, please,” I say, louder this time.

He moves his attention to me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I—”

“I’m tired,” I interrupt. So tired.

“Of course,” the older detective says. “We’ll get going but we’ll keep in touch.”

I don’t answer them, instead I turn my head toward the window and listen to their retreating footsteps, Dad following them and continuing to tell them what they should be doing to try and find her.

Concentrating on the window, I try to see as far as I can, but being four floors up means I can’t see much. Does that mean Phoebe wouldn’t be able to see inside? Or could she if she was on top of one of the surrounding buildings?

My eyes start to droop the longer I watch. I don’t move my gaze from the window when Dad comes back in, or hours later when Nate comes to visit, sitting next to me and trying to talk to me again.

The images from that day push their way to the front of my mind as I start to fall asleep, but it doesn’t matter how hard I try to stay awake, I can’t stop them from taking over.

I stare straight ahead as someone knocks on the door of my hospital room and walks in. I no longer have the spot on the wall to stare at that I did in the other room I was in until a few days ago. Now I have a painting of a sunset Harmony hung on the wall after coming to visit me on the first day I’d been moved to this ward.

She told me all about the painting and what inspired her to make it as she was hanging it, not having a care in the world that she was making a hole in the wall of a hospital.

All the while she was describing the colors and the techniques she used, I stared at it, not feeling any of the emotion I’m sure everyone else does when they look at it.

I felt nothing, just like my legs.

My gaze flits over to the middle-aged man who just walked in, his brown eyes shining bright at me as he smiles, showing me his teeth.

“Beth—”

“Amelia,” I interrupt.

“Oh,” he stutters, looking down at the tablet he holds in his hands. “I have a Beth Waters here—”

“That’s me,” I reluctantly reply, my voice hoarse. I only talk when I have to, which isn’t often at all. My voice almost sounds like someone else’s now, not being used to the sound of it as it hits my ears. “But call me Amelia.”

“Ahhh, okay, got it.” I move my eyes from him, having given him enough attention. “I’m here to take your cast off,” he adds, but I don’t acknowledge him any further as he brings over his tools and sets them up on the table. “It must be unbearably itchy now, huh?”

I shrug, but inside a little more of me dies.

I wouldn’t know if it’s itchy on account of not being able to feel a goddamn thing.

Six weeks. Six weeks of lying in this bed, hardly moving a muscle in the hopes that the swelling will go down and I’ll magically wake up one day and have all of the sensation back in my legs.

I’m still waiting for the magic to kick in, but right now I’m starting to accept the fact I may never be able to walk or feel my legs again.

He gets to work, taking off the cast and talking nonstop as he does. Once the cast is off, he holds it up, a grin spreading over his face as if we’ve been having the most riveting conversation in the history of conversations.

“Souvenir?”

I close my eyes, taking a deep calming breath before shaking my head and waiting for him to gather his stuff and leave.

I don’t want to be reminded of being inside these four walls or what put me here in the first place.

As soon as Phoebe’s face appears in my mind, I open my eyes, not willing myself to go down that route. I want to remain numb, because that’s the only way I’m sure to be able to survive right now. If I allow myself to relive the memories there won’t be any going back. I’m protecting myself, even if it means pushing everyone away and letting myself dissipate before their eyes.

The guy walks over to the door, pulling it open and then turning around to face me. “A doctor should be in to see you soon and talk about when you’ll start your physiotherapy.” I keep my expression neutral, my eyes dead, but it doesn’t faze him as he smiles again. “It was nice to meet you, Amelia.”

“I’m sure it was,” I think as he walks out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me staring at the sunset, hating everything about it.

The incessant bobbing of my knee isn’t helping the urge I feel to run out of the conference room. I’ve been back at work for six weeks now but every second has felt like a chore. I have no love for law right now, not when justice seems so far away for Amelia.