Chapter 48 - Torn

I still had the nightmares, but they no longer controlled me now. I would sleep, and I would dream, and wake up panicked. But with practice, it took me less and less time to recover. Last night it had taken me just ten minutes to calm myself, before I fell asleep again, the second time to much happier dreams.

I had only had one waking flashback since the first terrifying vision. Despite my apparent progress with my nightmares, I hadn't reacted well. It had taken Paul hours to calm me down, and my dreams that night had taken control, once again leaving me reluctant to sleep. However, I was slowly getting back to where I had been.

Now that I was sleeping again, and had been successful in the dream department, I found myself slowly growing less and less worried about that week. My happy go lucky optimism was returning, inch by inch, though I doubted I would ever be as upbeat and care free as I had been. But still, I was recovering. I was moving on.

And it was wonderful.

I contributed much of my improvement to Paul. He had continued to stay with me in the hospital, doing anything and everything from forcing me to sleep to entertaining me. Despite spending almost all my time with him, I never grew tired of being with him. Being with him was effortless; being with him felt right. His touch was intoxicating, his presence addicting.

Paul made me happy in a way that nothing else could.

Unfortunately, Paul had started going back to patrolling now that there was no need for him to be here 24/7. I missed him terribly when was away, but I wasn't as lonely as I'd thought I would be in his absence.

Now that my brother had control of his emotions, he was visiting me in the hospital. He wasn't nearly as happy about my new closeness with Paul, but was dealing with it. We were imprinted, after all. However, there had been a memorable moment when Matt had walked in on me and Paul lying in bed together, which he hadn't reacted well too. After that, Paul and I kept the touching to a minimum, at least in front of my brother.

I was enjoying my time with my brother. Matt and I got on quite well, most of the time. However, he had delivered a very stern half-hour lecture the day after the bed incident. I had found it simultaneously funny and embarrassing, and couldn't think back on it without laughing. However, I had managed to pull myself together at the end of his speech to reassure him that he didn't need to worry, because Paul and I weren't like that. Yet.

Since I had met with Matt in the woods, Paul hadn't kissed me again. As each day passed, my longing for Paul grew. His gentle touches were no longer enough. However, Paul maintained that he wouldn't do anything more until I was no longer in hospital. While I enjoyed the time to simply get to know him better, I couldn't help but yearn for the day that I got out of here, and not just so that I could be with Paul.

I was slowly beginning to feel trapped by the hospital. My dislike of cages, of not being free to leave as I will, was returning with a vengeance. I was growing more jumpy by the day, but I was learning to hide it; the nurses didn't need any more reasons to keep me here.

Their attempts at convincing me to talk about what had happened had notably increased. Most of the time I simply remained silent, stricken by the thought of reliving that week. There were times when the discussion was less calm, and I found myself breaking down, falling apart at the seams. Despite the many conversations on the topic, I hadn't budged.

I couldn't talk about it. Not just that I wouldn't, but that I couldn't.


Paul's POV

I was still haunted by my imagination; by the horrifying images it conjured, by the terrible scenes it produced. The need to know was growing, and soon I wouldn't be able to stand it.

She muttered in her dreams sometimes, words that chilled me to the bone, and left me pulling her closer. The panic attacks were less common now, but the words she had screamed, shouted, and whispered tortured me. They were fuel for my mind, and my mind was creating an endless supply of possible tortures that she had been subjected to.

My memories of what I had seen were the worst. Most of the time, they weren't enough to get me to phase; they were so often in my thoughts. But there had been times when I hadn't been able to stand it, when the wolf had burst forth, my emotions too intense, too strong to contain.

I couldn't describe the torture that had been watching her at his mercy. There was nothing worse, nothing more painful. It was permanently imprinted in my mind, and reliving it was agonising. I couldn't imagine what it must be like for her to have to relive it, when she was the one that was being hurt.

It wasn't surprising that her memories were destroying her. I could see it. Every day she suffered. She would improve, would recover from the dreams quicker. And then she would see something, and panic, and we'd be back to square one. It was awful to watch.

I knew she didn't want to talk. I didn't even think she could. But with every passing day, I grew more and more certain that not talking was killing her. Bottling it up, not venting it, it was too much. I could see it driving her crazy, driving her already somewhat paranoid behaviour to new limits.

She avoided the hallway, staying in her room. The few times she left, she acted as if she expected the leech to turn up at any second; she probably did expect it. Her eyes looked like they were about to jump out of their sockets, constantly darting around, looking for him. She didn't believe she was safe; she couldn't believe it.

I could tell that she wasn't going to recover. The fear was consuming her, its hold too tight. She had to let it out. But I couldn't stand to even broach the topic. To see the look on her face, the pained expression. There was no good way out of this. Either way, she would be in pain.

And that was something I couldn't stand.

I was scared to touch her. Scared of what the leech had done, scared I would do something to remind her. Scared that I would hurt her.

At the same time, I needed to touch her. Needed to hold her, to know she was safe. Needed to be with her.

But more than that, I wanted her. Not because of the imprint, not because we were tied so tightly together that at times we were almost the same person. I simply wanted her because of her. Because she was just as volatile and emotion ridden as I was; had been before all of this. Because she had a strong will, and had challenged me, despite my obvious advantage. Because like me, she seemed to be always up for a fight.

When we were together, it was effortless. We could bicker and tease each other, we could argue and fight, and we would enjoy it. When others would be insulted, or annoyed, or frustrated, we had fun. We could communicate entire conversations just through a look, through a gesture. We clicked.

And because of that, I wanted her more than anything.


Chloe's POV

Finally, a week after the meeting with my brother, I got permission from the doctor to leave the next day.

The next morning I woke up early, anticipation leaving me too keyed up to fall back to sleep. Paul had disappeared while I was asleep, and while waking up without him was starting to become familiar, his absence left me with a pang of sadness. I refused to leave in my white hospital gown, so I slipped into the bathroom to change into jeans and a pink shirt that Matt had brought for me. Dressed in my own clothes, I already felt different; I was no longer a patient.

Looking in the mirror, I looked the same as I had before all of this had happened. The same, except for two small details.

My wolf necklace still hung around my throat, now just the head of a wolf. Despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to take it off, to throw it away. It was so strongly tied to that week; it had been the reason I hadn't dropped dead the first time I had been bitten. But for some irrational, illogical reason, I wanted to keep it. I wanted it, because despite everything, it had survived. Like me.

The other part of me that was different was far less sentimental. I wore my hair down to cover my neck at all times, but as I stared, I brushed it away from my neck, feeling and staring at the numerous silver crescents that were a permanent reminder of him. A reminder I didn't really want, but that I couldn't get rid of.

Brushing my hair back over my neck, I stared at my reflection, knowing that despite my almost identical appearance, I was nowhere near the same person as before. I never would be. But whether or not my changing was a good thing, I had yet to tell. While I hated my memories with a passion, I knew that the events of that week had brought Paul and I together. Did the good outweigh the bad?

I guess I would just have to find out.

After what felt like an eternity, Matt turned up, and the hospital signed me over to his custody. I was buoyant as I walked out the hospital doors, which he found amusing. He didn't seem to be nearly as happy as I was, but I could tell he was pleased I was now well enough to go home.

We chatted amiably for the car trip home, and it seemed like just moments later we were pulling up in front of our house. I smiled as I jumped out of the car, happy to finally be back; it had been too long.

I happily wandered about the house, noting how familiar everything looked. I didn't know why that surprised me; maybe it was because I had changed, and I had half expected everything else to have changed too. And maybe it was because I half expected to see a certain vampire waiting for me. But I couldn't think of that; I was supposed to be happy.

Matt found my exploration amusing, and I made a face at him before heading upstairs. However, once I cleared the landing, and my bedroom door came into sight, I found myself skidding to a stop, reaching a standstill two metres away from the door. My cheery mood was quickly disintegrating, to be replaced with a sickening coil of fear.

My feet were frozen as I stared at the door, unable to force myself forward. In all my excitement, I had forgotten that the last time I had been in my bedroom, had been the night he had taken me.

The memory filled me with fear, and my breaths hitched in my throat as I looked at it, transfixed. I couldn't shake the feeling, despite knowing it was irrational, that he was going to be in there.

And so the mental war began. I wasn't sure how long I stood there, trying to convince myself that there was no danger whatsoever in entering my bedroom. But no matter how convincing my mind was, deep down, I would never truly believe I was safe.

Demetri had broken something, something far more fragile and important than my body. He had taken the part of me that was care free, the part of me that revelled in life. He had taken it, and he had crushed it. He had burned it to smithereens. And he had left me consumed by the emptiness, an emptiness that had driven me to become the opposite of what I had once been.

I was waiting, waiting for the day when life would be struck back into me. But until then, there was barely a second, barely a moment when there wasn't a part of me expecting danger. Expecting pain, and suffering, and hurt.

My dislike, my hatred for cages, for imprisonment; it had grown to a scale such that life itself felt like a trap. After three weeks in the hospital, still I had been wary of walking the halls, of venturing out beyond the room that had been my sanctuary. Already this house was beginning to feel like it was closing in, and my wandering had been as much to check for danger as it had been for reflection.

Danger was everywhere. Danger was my life. So it didn't matter what was waiting behind the door. What mattered was whether or not I was ready, whether or not I could bring myself to face it.

Sucking in a huge breath, I walked forwards, tentatively placing my hand on the doorknob. I was trembling, fighting the rapidly growing urge to turn and run. But I couldn't; I had to do this. And then I was opening the door, bursting into my bedroom, a scream ready in my throat.

There was no one there.

It looked perfectly normal, everything exactly as it should be. I sighed in relief, sinking onto my bed gratefully, feeling my constricted throat clearing as my breaths slowed. The relief that consumed me was overwhelming in its intensity.

Everything was overwhelming lately. My emotions controlled me, consumed me. Everything came in its extremes. If I was happy, I became radiant, so optimistic and cheerful that the whole world seemed alive. If I was scared, I was terrified; I couldn't break away once it had a hold.

Happiness and fear. Fighting for the right to rule me. Representing me before, and me after. Me in control, me out of control. Both wanting dominance, neither willing to yield to the other. Both had roots deep within me, so deep that destruction of either was impossible. I was locked in an eternal struggle.

And I could feel it tearing me apart.

I knew which side I wanted to win; given the option between terror and joy, between being in control, and being lost, the choice was easy. But fear was permanently etched within me, and to get rid of it, I was going to have to fight it.

I would have to fight, and it would hurt.

But it was better than the alternative.