Chapter Six
~Anastasia~
The walls in the room are painted antique white. Pictures of landscapes, caught in shades of various sunrises adorn the walls. The beige shades are closed. There's a dry erase board on the wall directly in front of me that no one has written on. The bed is queen size. The sheets feel like I'm on melting butter and I'm guessing they're made from Egyptian cotton. I only know what Egyptian cotton sheets feel like because that's what kind of sheets Kate has on her bed. They're periwinkle blue and match perfectly with the thick white and blue flowered comforter. There's a flat screen television mounted on the wall, but it's turned off and I don't see a remote anywhere. It's probably nearby, but it hurts my head to turn around, so I've stopped looking for it. This looks more like a hotel suite than a hospital room.
How did Mom and Bob get me a room like this?
A blood pressure cuff on my arm inflates every so often as do the annoying things that are on my legs. The nurse tells me they are to help blood clots from forming. I've been given a bed bath although I don't feel clean. They washed away the stickiness of the pads that my heart monitor leads were connected to, only to attach more elsewhere. I don't understand that logic. Why are they monitoring my heart? It's my skull that they had to screw back together.
My pillows have been plumped and I'm trying to take in all of the various bags of medicine that are ultimately making their way into my bloodstream via a port in my chest that's uncomfortable. Earlier this morning, when a kind nurse's aide helped me clean up and brush my teeth, she combed out the tangles in my hair and then braided it. What she didn't do was tell me where the hell I'm at.
"Where's my mom," I'd asked her. She changed the subject and told me that the doctors were making rounds and would answer all of my questions then.
So, now, hours later, I'm sitting and looking at the two doctors in question. One is the tall redhead that I know, the one who operated on me. She looks quite young and has an Irish accent. The second doctor is a platinum blonde who appears to be around Mom's age. She has kind eyes. I haven't asked them anything yet because they're too busy explaining things to me that are confusing the hell out of me.
"Anastasia, you're healing so well that my role will no longer be prominent in your care," Dr. Marshall, the surgeon begins. "Berman is now your primary physician. As a neurologist, she will be watching out for additional neurological setbacks or deficits, and since she's also a neuropsychologist, Dr. Berman will be invaluable helping you deal with your retrograde amnesia." Dr. Marshall stops talking. She's looking at me like she expects me to say something.
All I want to know is how the hell I ended up with screws in my skull. I remain quiet and continue to stare at them. I'm feeling panic and hostile; two emotions that I'm not familiar with.
"Just press this red button if you need pain relief. It's a PCA pump, with your pain medicine in it." Marhsall holds up the tubing with the red button. I almost roll my eyes at her. Yet another tube. At least the nurse's aide from this morning removed the catheter.
"This medication won't keep you knocked out like you were in ICU. That's why you don't recall being there," Dr. Marshall says, my opened chart is resting on her lap. "So, is there anything you'd like to ask either of us before we begin?"
Both women are staring at me with pleasant and expectant expressions. Oh, so now I can ask what's happened. I am eyeing both warily. Like everyone else I've encountered, so far, they haven't answered any of my questions. I'm also wondering why no one that's been taking care of me has a southern accent, including Nurse Nora, the brusque and no-nonsense nurse who woke me up this morning. Her loud and incessant calling of my name brought me to consciousness, and I found myself in this hospital room. No, this hotel suite.
Disoriented after just waking up, I felt her briskly taking my vital signs, and then she essentially funneled apple juice down my throat. She gave me the runaround, too.
"Yes. I'd like to know what happened to me," I whisper. God, my voice sounds terrible and my tone is bitchy. Jesus, I'm angry.
"Ana, we're not trying to keep anything from you," Dr. Berman explains. "Dr. Marshall wanted to introduce us, and have me assess your condition first. We both agree that having your loved one's present would be best," she continues. "I don't say that to frighten you. Patients having support is beneficial since you're going to have a lot of information thrown at you. Plus, your family and friends can fill in more holes in your memory than any doctor could."
Her words cause tears to pour from my eyes and I don't know why. I don't even feel sad. There is a large lump of snot and tears in the back of my throat, and I'm longing for Nurse Nora and her funnel of apple juice. Dr. Berman wipes my tears away.
"Why didn't my family tell me anything while I was in ICU? You told me that they all saw me after I woke up," I ask them.
Dr. Marshall smiles and strokes the side braid that nurse's aide fingers created. "They did visit every chance they could." she answers. "We had to keep you heavily sedated."
"Oh. So, this is the first time…"
"That they'll see your pretty smile? Yes. You have several people on the other side of this door who are threatening to break it down to see you. One, in particular, doesn't understand what the word 'no' means," Dr. Berman pipes up.
"Can they come in? I…I'd like to see them, please." There's no doubt that if I did hear Kate, and she's here, then she's the one who doesn't know what 'no' means.
"Of course, Ana. I'll go get them. Hopefully, they'll be able to jog your memory. Dr. Berman will stay with you," Dr. Marshall answers and pats one of my hands.
I take a deep breath and the cool air irritates my raw throat. Swallowing hard, I peek over at Dr. Berman and begin to cry.
"Are you crying because you're afraid of what you may find out?" she asks.
I shake my head, as painful as it is, and raise my still heavy and sore arm to wipe my nose with the tissue she places in my hand.
"To be honest? I don't know why. My emotions are everywhere, and everything that I've picked up on this morning doesn't bode well. It seems like red flags are popping up all over the place."
Dr. Berman looks at me thoughtfully. "The head injury could be the reason your emotions are so scattered. However, I'd like to know what it is you feel that you've picked up on, Ana?"
Irritated, I scoff at her. "That's the psychologist in the neuropsychologist asking me that question, isn't it?"
She laughs softly. "Perhaps, but my concern is where your main anxiety, not to mention that hostility I sense, is stemming from. It can also give me a picture of you neurologically. The brain is tricky, and the site of your injury can affect many things."
God, now I'm afraid that I'm going to end up an invalid.
"Dr. Marshall said I wasn't brain damaged," I snap.
Dr. Berman's eyebrows raise. "You're not."
"Then why hasn't anyone told me the date? There isn't even a calendar in this room. When I asked Nurse Nora, she deflected and evaded my question like a politician would. What's the big deal about that? I'm beginning to think none of you think that I can handle the truth. Wouldn't that make you hostile?"
She smiles. "Ah, don't think I didn't catch that sense of humor, and yes, everyone about this would scare me," she replies. "Your family agreed with Dr. Marshall and me when we suggested filling you in together. Everyone is desperate to ease the anxiety we assume that you must be experiencing."
"I understand that, but it doesn't lessen the fact that I feel like throwing up. I think I'm having a panic attack, and I'm also beginning to get angry. I'm desperate to see my parents, but I'm also afraid to see them."
"That's understandable. You woke up in an intensive care unit without knowing how you ended up there. That would terrify anyone. But Dr. Marshall and I will be in the room with your family," she assures me. If we see you're having a panic attack, we'll intervene. We aren't going to overload you with information, because doing so with a patient who has retrograde amnesia can be harmful. It can also confuse the patient further. Don't forget that you have the power to say when enough is enough."
I stare at her for a long moment, trying to decide if she's trustworthy or not. Shit, I don't even trust myself at this point. Not only does my head hurt, it's also fucked up. I gnaw on my bottom lip before answering her.
"I don't understand why my mind recalls somethings with such clarity, and then seems to stutter and stall. I remember so many things. I remember feeling things. Can someone remember feelings but not the memory behind them? I can't comprehend why my mind seems to have chosen to turn on and off, everything inside my mind feels shredded and fuzzy. It's so frustrating, and frankly, it pisses me off."
Berman nods. "I don't mean to sound like a broken record, Ana, but remember what I said after you told us what you do recall. The brain is so complex that modern medicine doesn't understand it. In fact, I believe it never will. Although, we do know that injured brain matter can't rejuvenate. Once it's gone, it never comes back. Damaged brain cells don't leave behind rhyme or reason about the havoc they've left." Dr. Berman squeezes my hand.
"Don't get me wrong, Ana. I've treated people who lost their entire life from injuries similar to yours, and I've seen other's who've woken up and not lost a minute of their life. Your condition isn't uncommon, no matter how frustrating it may be. I know that doesn't make you feel better or lessen your anxiety. The bright side is that your memory may return. That's why having your family here is so important. I know we've just met, Ana, but trust me. I'm here as your doctor, but I'm also here as an advocate to support you," she finishes.
I squeeze her hand back, and am about to ask her a question, but before I can, the door to my room opens, startling me. Dr. Berman stands as Dr. Marshall strides in, who's grinning at me, but also looks exasperated. Dr. Berman raises the head of my bed a bit higher.
Suddenly, Mom and Ray appear in the doorway. They're both frozen in place and seem unsure of what to do. As expected, my mother is crying quite loudly. Ray's fists are in the pockets of his khaki's and his eyes are watering up, and now mine are. Both are staring at me like they've never seen me before.
The room is quiet while we all stare at one another. I immediately note several odd things about my mother. One, her short hair has grown out considerably. Two, her year-round Savannah tan has disappeared, and three, she's wearing a thick, turtleneck sweater and has a black North Face raincoat draped over her arm. I'm not a meteorologist, but I don't think the temperature in Savannah, Georgia ever dips low enough to require such warm apparel.
At that same moment, Dr. Berman walks to the window and opens the blinds. It's almost like she did it on purpose, as to reveal something. I stare out the window. It's raining heavily.
"Oh, Anastasia. . ." Mom starts to say between tear-soaked hiccups. She's placed both her hands over her mouth, and as usual, can't seem to gain control of her emotions. I really wish my mother wasn't such a crier.
"Come inside," Dr. Marshall orders, gesturing for them to enter the room. "Have a seat," she tells them, directing at the two empty chairs. Ray shuffles into the room and heads straight for me. Bending down, he kisses me on the forehead. I breathe in the comforting smell of Old Spice aftershave. How can you miss someone so much when you've been unconscious and blissfully unaware of the fact that you've been missing in action?
"Annie, you're the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. This old man has missed you," he says, each word loaded with emotion. He looks back at my mother, who is still rooted in the same spot. "Carla, are you just going to stand there staring at our daughter?"
He sounds irritated at her as usual. Mom nods, her sobbing now sniffles. She smiles, enters the room, and makes her way towards me. I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding frantically with dread. This has quickly become too real. I'm now thrown at the sight of my parents and I'm wondering if I do really want to know what happened to me?
Yes, I do. God, no, I don't. Before Mom reaches my bedside, the door begins to open, and I feel an electric current run through my body. I glance up and find myself locked in the bold, gray gaze of one Christian Grey.
Christian Grey?
What. In. The. Hell. Is. He. Doing. Here?
Everything and everyone in the room melts into the background. All I can see is Christian Grey, and for the life of me, I have zero theories about why he'd be here. My stomach twists into knots as I watch him stride over to me, appraising me from head to toe. He's a vision of masculine beauty in jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and hiking boots. No one. . . absolutely no one, should be this gorgeous.
Christian is sitting on the edge of my bed in the blink of an eye. He raises my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles repeatedly. I wonder if I'm in the right universe. It isn't like he was boyfriend or we were in a relationship that would cause him to behave this way. Plus, this isn't how I remember Christian Grey ever behaving.
"Oh, Anastasia. I have missed you so much, baby. You're back. You came back to me," he murmurs against my hand. "God, I love you, Ana."
What did he just say?
That's when I pull my arm out of his hand. Dr. Berman's eyes flit to mine. The cheerful attitude she just had is replaced by immediate concern. I can sense she's judging my confused reaction, though no one else in the room does. Not even the man who was just kissing my hand.
Christian Grey's unruly, dark copper hair is too long and it looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days. His soft words escape in a rush and sound strained. I stare at his beautiful face, mesmerized. The butterflies in my stomach are the same ones I felt the day I met him. I can clearly recall interviewing him for the WSUV paper for Kate. But he wasn't like this. This isn't the man I know. But try to I push back trying to remember things about Christian Grey.
"You're right, Mrs. Adams. This young man's obvious adoration may kick-start your daughter's memory," says Dr. Berman says, still watching my interaction, or lack thereof, with Christian Grey.
Christian squeezes my sore hand and I wince. "I'll do everything to make that happen."
He's watching me intently like I'm under a microscope. I finally gather my scattered wits and manage to weakly smile at him. Surprising me, he bends down and kisses me chastely on the lips. "I love you," he says, leaving me speechless, and really, really confused.
"Ana, are you ready to do this?" Dr. Marshall asks. She doesn't seem to have picked up on this mindfuck I'm currently experiencing. Since Christian has walked into the room, I'm not so sure I'm ready to do anything. When was the last time that I saw him? I'm trying to remember when the door to my room suddenly opens and Nurse Nora flies in and takes my vitals. She nods at Marshall and Berman and leaves as quickly as she came in. Glancing around me, I see that I'm surrounded by five sets of eyes that are staring at me expectantly.
Berman's brows are furrowing a bit and while I'm not an expert on reading people, she looks as though she believes something is amiss with my behavior toward Christian.
"Ana," she says. Her eyes are trained on mine. "How are you feeling?"
I can't help it. I look at Christian. "Confused," I whisper. When was the last time I saw him? My memories of him are fuzzy and jumbled together. I'm just not sure. It's disconcerting.
She narrows her eyes. "Are you in pain?" she asks me. Oh, yeah, she definitely thinks something is off, and might be blaming it that I'm in pain. Then again, her attitude didn't change until Christian walked in the room.
"Yes."
She reaches for the tubing attached to an IV bag and presses that red button. I feel instant relief and even my growing anxiety is dampened. "Better?"
I nod, my neck already feeling better. "Thank you," I reply. The medicine isn't as strong as the dose I was receiving in the ICU, but for a moment my eyes close. I open them to find everyone in the room staring at me. Dr. Berman still looks skeptical and is watching Christian. Dr. Marshall doesn't seem to have picked up on anything, then again, she's too busy writing in my chart.
"Do you feel like doing this?" Dr. Berman asks. "Do you feel like the Demerol has impaired you too much?"
I shake my head. The pain is gone, but my mind is still sharp. "No, to the Demerol, and yes, to talking about this."
Dr. Marshall has quit scribbling in my chart. "OK. If this becomes too much for you, we'll stop and pick it up at a later time. We'll fill you in, and yes, you're going to have questions. But let us know how you feel. And, that includes if that medicine wears off and you're hurting," she tells me.
"I understand. I just want to know what happened to me."
Mom is sniffling, which is grating on my nerves. I want to tell her to stop it, but I've never said a word to her about how her ever changing emotions have bothered me in my entire life. But now, I want to tell her to stop. That feeling is strange.
Ray is looking everywhere but at me, and a billionaire is rubbing my left hand against his stubbly cheek. Everything about this is weird, but of course, it would be. What did I expect?
"Okay, I'm going to jump and answer the questions that you've already asked us," Dr. Berman begins. "Ana, you've been in the hospital for forty-three days. The date October twenty-first, two-thousand and eleven,"
And, the first mental bomb has been dropped, and has detonated. However, it seems like someone told me how long I'd been unconscious when I was in ICU. I frown.
The room is deathly quiet. I don't think anyone is breathing as they all look at me and wait for my reaction. I am reassembling my jumbled thoughts and trying to gather a hint of how it could be October. October? I don't understand. I look over at Mom.
"How is that possible, Mom? I'm here to visit you. I whisper. "Why didn't I go back to Seattle?"
My mother opens and closes her mouth several times before Christian answers for her. She seems to be at a loss for words. He is running his thumb along my cheek bone. It's strange, but also feels familiar.
"Anastasia, you did come home. You stayed with Carla for a week and then you flew home. Taylor picked you up from the airport and brought you back to my apartment. We stayed in all night and had dinner, and the next day I took you out on a-"
"Excuse me, Mr. Grey. Let's keep the basic facts linear. We discussed information overload," Dr. Berman interrupts him.
Christian doesn't look pleased at all.
"Ana, you left Savannah as planned and came back to Seattle. You aren't in Georgia. You're in Harborview Medical Center in Seattle." Dr. Berman's eyes hold mine, they're probing, and her words are matter-of-fact.
It's like she's punched me in the stomach.
I exhale deeply. My mind is reeling and my head swims with an uncomfortable feeling that I can't name nor do I want to. This situation is utterly nonsensical. It's so fucked up that I'm no longer afraid or feel the effects of the Demerol.
Hello, everyone. I'm Alice, and I've face planted into Wonderland. I look between my parents and Christian. They all look anguished.
"You're telling me that I've lost several months of my life? You're saying that I've walked, talked, and been alive and breathing, since May? But for me, it's as if I've been asleep the entire time? I haven't the slightest memories of what I've been doing?"
I've raised my raspy voice until it cracks, and Christian quickly and deftly pours me a glass of water and puts it up to my mouth. I peer up at him. His gray eyes are bleak. "Thank you," I whisper after I drain the cup. He offers me a small smile.
Dr. Berman sighs, and I uselessly try to block out the sound of my once again crying mother. I wish that Ray would tell her to leave the room, or throw a Valium down her throat. She's adding to what must be a building panic attack. The only person in this room who deserves to cry is me.
"Your description is accurate, I'm afraid," Dr. Berman answers. "You and Mr. Grey have been together these past months. He can best fill you in."
Excuse me?
Christian doesn't allow me a chance to utter a word. He speaks carefully. "We've been together since the beginning of May. You live with Kate in the apartment down in the Pike Market District. Do you remember moving into that apartment?" he asks me.
"Of course, I do," I start. "Kate's parents bought it for her and they signed the lease before graduation. Before I met you?
Christian stares at me. It's almost like he's having to decide what's best to say next. What's that about? God, I hope Kate is here. She's got a lot to fill me in about.
"Mr. Grey, please. Stick to the important issues. Small details can come later," says Dr. Marshall in an annoyed tone of voice. Christian glares at her.
"Anastasia, Christian told us that you keep a journal. Honey, you can read that, and hopefully, something in it will jog your memory. Both Dr. Berman and Dr. Marshall agree that your journaling could help you piece together those small details Dr. Marshall is referring to. But Kate can't find it anywhere. Hopefully, you'll remember where you kept it."
"My journal," I snap. "I think I've got more important things to know other than where my journal's at."
I catch Christian narrowing his eyes at my mother with an indecipherable look on his face. Perhaps he feels that she interrupted him and he doesn't like it? Then again, from what I remember, people always annoyed him.
"Carla, Ana's journal may be at my apartment. I'll look for it. She was there the night before the accident," he says hastily.
I roll my eyes at the once again at the mentioned journal. He stops talking and turns his attention back to me.
"Okay, baby, Dr. Marshall's right. Let's see, you got a job at Seattle Independent Publishing.
His words trail off and he is clenching his jaws. I don't probe for the reason.
"I do remember interviewing there." I look pointedly at Dr. Berman. "When did I start working there?" I ask.
"The week after you returned from visiting your mother," Christian answers.
"Oh. And I worked there until I was hurt?" Was I in a car accident?" I ask.
Ray grunts at my question. I look at him, but can't see his face. He's turned and is looking out the window.
"Yes, you worked there, and no, you weren't in a car accident" Christian replies curtly, his expression hardening.
Dad and Christian's change in disposition is drastic. The atmosphere in the room has changed completely. Where it felt wrought with anxiety, it now feels oppressed by anger. I search Mom's face for an indication to what their behavior means. She wears her emotions on her too expressive face and she doesn't let me down this time. Her red rimmed eyes are pouring tears as fast as she can dash them away. Shit. I mechanically turn my head to Berman and Marshall, no matter how much it pains me. They're not
biased and I hope that I can gauge their reactions better.
Dr. Berman's arms are crossed and she's frowning at me, her eyes seem to be searching mine. Dr. Marshall has abandoned her note taking and is studying me as well. Her lips are pursed and she has tilted her head to the side. What am I? A bug? That, or the topic at hand is significant.
Dr. Berman told me to ask questions, so here goes. "Why has bringing up my job caused such reactions from you all? Someone explain, please?" I demand, the sudden urge to scratch the skin off of my thighs hits me. It feels like ants are all over them. How odd.
"Mr. Steele?" Dr. Berman prompts. Ray stands up and shakes his head no. He shoves his fisted hands back into his pants pockets and walks to the window, his back to us. My mother gets up and goes over to him, and surprisingly, pats him on the back. I can't make out what they're murmuring to one another. My muscles are sore and weak, but I use them to push up higher in the bed. I wince. Something is definitely wrong and I want to know what.
"Ana, on the—" Dr. Berman begins, but Christian cuts her off.
"No. Allow me to tell Anastasia." He shuffles himself closer to me. He's holding my hand so hard it's painful. He inhales deeply, and it seems as though he's steeling himself against some oncoming disaster.
"Baby, the night you got hurt. You were hurt the night before your birthday." Shockingly, Christian's eyes tear up and he uses his thumb to wipe the falling tears. I stare at him with what must be amazement on my face and I hear him choke out a sob as he turns away.
"Christian, what's wrong?" I whisper. I say, even though I feel anything except fine. We've been a couple for all these months? That's why he's crying?
Christian Grey crying. Mindfuck number two.
I begin to rub my thighs. I stop when it becomes painful.
Christian's shoulders are shaking as he sobs, and I am truly confused at his behavior. What the hell happened in the span of five months?
Dr. Berman lean towards him. "Mr. Grey, I believe it's best if Dr. Marshall or myself tell Ana," she says.
"Mr. Grey, can I get you some water?" Christian shakes his head and swipes the tears from his eyes.
He turns back to face me and once again grabs my sore hand. My mother and Ray sit in the two chairs they've pulled beside my bed. I reach out for Dad to take my other hand. From Christian's reaction, whatever I'm about to be told must be bad.
Dr. Berman sits on the edge of my bed beside Christian before she begins to speak and I can tell he's annoyed her. She hushes him when he opens his mouth.
"Ana," Dr. Berman begins calmly. I hold her sympathetic gaze and she gently places a hand on my calf. "Before I tell you this, I need for you to be honest with me. Do you feel ready to hear this? What happened to you is going to frighten you, and rightfully so," she tells me as she moves closer to me. Only you know if you are emotionally ready to hear this."
I begin to cry and dash the tears off of my cheeks as best that I can, looking into her eyes. The fear and anxiety that I'd been consumed with all morning has returned. My heart is racing and for the first time in my life, I want to peel the skin off of my thighs.
Both had been paralyzed by Christian's presence and how overwhelmed that I've witnessed his behavior. No, every hair on my body is standing up, and dread is tingling down my back. Knowing that they are all looking at me only adds to this uneasiness that's increasing. Something really bad must have happened to me. Something so bad that Ray refuses to tell me. It was so bad that it has rendered Christian Grey speechless and made him weep. These unwelcome tears keep flowing as fast as my mother can wipe them away. I'm so terrified that I have the urge to throw up.
"Tell me, please," I finally whisper.
"You were ending your work day. Nearly everyone had already left for the day, save two of your fellow employees, both were women. You left the building, only to remember that you'd forgotten something. Mr. Grey had a member of his security personnel watching over you in the capacity of a body guard. You went back in the building on your own, and your—"
Security personnel? Why would I need security personnel? This is crazy. Oh, Kate's got a lot of explaining to do.
"Close protection officer," Christian snaps at her, taking me by surprise. Dr. Berman is unfazed.
"Your close protection officer did not follow you inside. As I said, there were two women still in the building. You somehow ended up in the employee break room. The women stated that they heard you screaming for help." Dr. Berman stops and Christian dabs at the tears that are now blinding me.
"Ana, are you OK? If this has become too much, we can give you an anti-anxiety med," Berman tells me.
I had assumed that I was in a car accident or my clumsy ass had tripped and I'd hit my head on a coffee table. The picture that Dr. Berman is painting is far from either of those scenarios, and I'm not liking where this is going. I feel like I'm choking and my body is stiff from panic.
"Water," I manage to croak. "Water." Christian is gently pouring small sips in my mouth before I realize it, and I snap out of my stupor. Christian looks angry. Very angry. I hear my mother once again softly crying, but I can't tear my eyes away from Christian. I need so many answers, but I can't articulate the questions.
"Just tell me," I say this with my eyes locked on Christian's. For some reason I recognize our connection. I can remember how he caught me on the sidewalk in Portland, and hopefully he recognizes that I need him to catch me now.
Dr. Berman sighs. "The women, followed by Mr. Grey's employee, ran toward the sound of your voice, and found you in the employee break room. Ana." She's rubbing my leg that feels like ants are crawling on, as she tells me this other worldly event. I want to tell her to get her paws off of me.
"Anastasia, do you remember a man named Jack Hyde? He worked at SIP?" Dr. Morrison asks.
I think back for several seconds and a blurry memory floats in front of me. "Yeah, he interviewed me for the job at SIP," I answer.
"You were injured because Jack Hyde attacked you. He caused the blow to your head, and it's speculated that he intended on sexually assaulting you. Your co-workers told the police that before they witnessed your boss strike you that your shirt was nearly been torn off." Dr. Berman abruptly stops when I gasp and clutch my chest, abandoning Christian's hand.
"Oh, God!" I whisper. I'm so confused. Why? Why would someone . . . Was I . . . Oh, God, did he . . . No!" My loud and hoarse voice echoes inside my head and it begins to throb again. Overwhelmed with panic, I struggle to push myself up in the bed, and I pull away from the arms that are grab at me from too many directions. I'm sucking in air at a rapid rate, but I'm breathless.
My head hurts worse with every heavy thud my heart pounds into my chest. I can only think of a single question. A question that I'm screaming inside my head and throughout the room: Did he rape me?
"Did he rape me? Daddy? Did he?" I'm wailing and fighting each set of arms though I'm exhausted and medicated. I feel dirty. Desperate. Petrified.
The rushed, loud words around me don't make any sense. I just want to get up and hide. I wasn't expecting this at all. Who in the hell tries to rape their fellow employee when there are other workers present? I feel gross and my skin is crawling
Can't I just get up, scrub myself clean and hide underneath the bed? Fear and filth won't be able to find me if I'm under my bed. Then, I'm entrapped in strong arms and held against a hard body that is shuddering with sobs. My body responds, and slowly, I stop fighting and flailing around.
I know it's Christian Grey arms that are holding me, even though I quite don't understand why. He's murmuring that I wasn't raped over and over and over.
"You weren't raped, Anastasia. He never touched you that way, I swear," Christian repeats.
Then a blinding light appears behind my eyes and the room dips. All I can see looks like static on a television. It's disabling and I cry out in pain. My head is breaking in to. If I weren't in the bed, I'd most definitely fall in the floor. The headache is too much.
Quickly, I feel warmth throughout my body and I relax in Christian's arms. I'm cognizant enough to realize they've given me something to knock me out.
Christian never lets go of me. His arms only hold me tighter and he begins to rock me back and forth.
He says something and it sounds like he's a million miles away from me. I'm just able to make it out.
"Fuck, my helplessness . . . I love you, but I'm not going to be able to heal you," Christian whispers in my ear.