Necessary Evil of Nathan Miller (3 page)

Their conversation drifted away as they
left, my thoughts stirring sluggishly.

Beaten. Raped. Left on a beach to
die.
I remembered pain. I remembered sand.
Left to
die?

No. My death was meant to be sudden and
witnessed. Never alone.

My body slipped away again –
did
that mean they'd given me more pain medication?
I struggled to
hold onto my thoughts of sand...beach...as I sank into oblivion and
what I can only describe as the arms of a nightmare.

Part 10

Dark – Chris – Awake – Card – Headache
– Stab – Free

The door cracked open, without a
clichéd creak. Dim light spilled into the room. Feverishly, I kept
digging my nails into the card, trying to find something to cut my
bonds. I closed my eyes, trying to visualise the card I held.

"Hey." His voice was barely above a
whisper. "Are you awake yet?"

No. I'm busy sleeping, so fuck off, I
thought but didn't say.

I found the scissors. Trying not to
move too much, I dug the blades into the rope.

"Awake?" he said again. He shone a
torch into my face.

I opened my eyes slowly. My head ached
horribly and I couldn’t see clearly. He loomed like a blurry shadow
above me, between me and my escape.

Chris help up his hands, surrendering –
just like he had in the car.

I wondered if he knew what I held in my
hands.

He shook his head convulsively. "I'm
not going to hurt you." He sounded like he was begging, but that
made no sense. Begging me to believe him, maybe. "How are you
feeling?"

I tried to talk but nothing came out. I
sawed furiously at the rope.

He crouched on the floor near me, but
not near enough to touch me. "Would you like some Panadol for the
headache?" He sounded kind. Perhaps he could see my panic and
mistook it for fear.

I remember he waited a moment, like he
wanted to say something else, but he seemed to change his mind. He
moved from a crouch to his full height, leaving the room as quickly
as he'd come.

I felt something snap and kept slicing
at that rope, desperately trying to free myself before he
returned.

The rope gave, loosening around my
wrists. Carefully, I tried to pull my hand out.

Yes!

Feverishly, I untied my legs. I tried
to find a knife in the card – something, anything I could threaten
Chris with to make him let me go. I pulled it out a tiny bit, so
I'd be able to find it again when I needed it, and stuck the card
back in my pocket.

My feet tingled as I wiggled my toes,
trying to relieve the numbness. Whoever had tied my feet had done a
better job than they had with the restraints around my wrists.

Cautiously, I stood up, my toes curling
and refusing to cooperate as circulation returned. I tried to take
a shuffling step, but the whirling dizziness in my head almost made
me fall.

I have to get to the door so I can get
out. Hide somewhere so I can get between him and the door when he
comes in. Shut him in here and run.

I couldn't see, but I continued to drag
my feet across the floor until my outstretched fingers touched the
wall. I almost cried as I slumped against it.

No. Can't cry. No matter how scared, I
have to keep it inside if I want to escape and live. Can't
hesitate.

"You can do this. You can do this," I
heard Chris's voice murmur from the other side of the door.

You can do what? Rape me? FUCK YOU. I
pulled the card out of my pocket and extracted the knife.

The door started to open. Chris had his
back to it, shouldering his way into the room, carrying
something.

He's going to see me as soon as he gets
the door open far enough. I need to get the knife to his throat
while his hands are full.

I straightened up, trying to ignore the
blinding pain in my head, as I threw myself forward, blade out.

I felt it sink in, with a strange ease.
Not like cutting up meat. Baked potato, maybe.

Blackness descended.

Part 11

When I was aware of my surroundings
again, I found I couldn’t hear anything. It was too quiet. I opened
my eyes in shock, blinking to make sure I’d really, finally opened
them.

I looked up at a white ceiling with an
institutional fluorescent light. The light was dim, leaving shadows
on the ceiling, but it felt too bright to me after so much
darkness.

Focussing on trying to keep my eyes
open, I experimented with moving my toes, then my fingers. My toes
moved fine, but my fingers felt like they were tangled in the
sheet. I could certainly feel them, but they barely moved through
the resistance of whatever wrapped them.

I tried to lift my arms so that I could
see my hands. I managed to bring them into my field of vision,
before I tried to move my fingers again. It took me a few moments
to realise that the white swathing my hands wasn't a pair of weird,
white gloves.
They’ve bandaged my hands and all of my fingers.
No wonder I can’t move them.

It occurred to me that I was pretty
useless with my hands disabled.

I shouldn’t be alone. He promised he’d
be here. Does that mean they killed him?

I called for him, irritated that I
didn’t know his name.

I tried to sit up, but I was afraid to
put any weight on my evidently injured hands. Crunches were never
my strong point, but this was the first time I’d regretted avoiding
them.
Everyone should do daily crunches, just in case their
hands are disabled and they need those tummy muscles to sit
up.

I heard his voice nearby and I
struggled to focus on his words before I saw his face above me,
looking exhausted. He wore a shirt now and he looked fine, as if
he’d never been shot.

He touched his fingers to mine and I
felt the heat of his hand through the bandage before he ripped his
hand away as if he’d been burned.

I didn’t feel burned. I couldn’t feel
any pain in my hands or anywhere else. Stunned, I tried to process
this and came up with two options – either we were both dead and
he’d waited for me in the afterlife, or I’d been given so much pain
medication I just felt like I was made of cloud.

I hesitated, feeling it would be rude
to ask if he was dead. He didn’t look it. "I’m not dead, am I?" I
asked instead, wishing to be right. My voice felt weak from lack of
use and my throat was dry, so the words were much quieter than I
expected.

He smiled broadly, his eyes
laughing.

Is it funny because the answer's no
or yes?
Worried, my eyes fixed on his face.
Please, don’t
let me be dead!

I sighed in relief as he told me I was
in hospital and on strong pain medication.

Medication I don’t remember being
given
, I realised. "What happened?" I demanded in my weak
voice.

He looked bewildered. "You were hurt."
I don’t think he wanted to explain how badly I’d been hurt –
thought the strong drugs were a pretty good indication. As for how
I’d been hurt...shit, even I didn’t want to think about that.

I tried to explain to him what I
remembered of the last things I'd seen, before waking up here.
Nurses and scissors, syringes and simpering cartoon characters.
How do I describe there’s a huge gaping hole in my memory and
I’m asking him to fill it? How do you describe a huge gaping hole,
except that it’s dark?
I shook my head, trying not to think of
the dark again. I swallowed. "What happened?" I asked him again, my
voice louder this time.

His words came out in a rush. "You
fought the nurses. You were so scared. I think they gave you
something to make you sleep – you’ve been asleep for a while."

I’d fought the nurses? Why? All I’d
wanted to do was find out if he was okay.
Haltingly, I told him
what I remembered – trying to get up and not being able to – but he
interrupted me.

He sounded horrified. "You did too much
as it was – if you'd done any more, we might have lost you. You
came so close, Caitlin…hell, I was scared." His eyes held mine for
a second before he looked away.

I almost died? When I find out who’s
responsible, I’m going to hunt them down and kill them slowly. Why
don’t I remember? I came that close to death and I didn’t even
know?
My eyes filled with tears that I couldn’t wipe away with
my useless hands. I tried furiously to blink them away, but what he
said next turned the waterworks tap on full.

"It’s over."

The shock, the relief, all of it just
gushed out of me as I bawled. His hands hesitantly patted my back
as he helped me cry into his shirt.

It felt like the tears would never end,
but they did. Realisation came that if he was telling the truth and
I’d nearly died, I owed him.

I chose my words carefully. "Thank you.
I think…you saved my life." I tried to find a nice way to phrase
what I wanted to ask next, but I just couldn’t. "Who are you? I
barely know you."

"My name is Nathan Miller. I found you
lying on the beach. I just brought you in to the hospital," he
rattled off, as if by rote.

So that’s his story. And he’s Nathan
Miller. His sister was Alanna Miller. He’d be a prime candidate for
Mr Sleazy Roommate.
I found I was looking at my hands, now
sedately placed in my lap. For the first time, I noticed the IV
line into my right hand and the pain relief mystery was solved.
Focus.

"Nathan Miller," I repeated carefully,
as I tried to find the words to express what I was thinking.

Nervously, I licked my dry, cracked
lips and made an effort to smile, though my cheeks felt too heavy
to do it. "Thank you. You chose to keep your promise...Nathan."

I watched him carefully for his
reaction. First he opened his mouth, as if he had a burning
question to ask, but his mouth stayed open as he stared at me. He
looked wistful.

I dropped my gaze to my lap, counting
the seconds slowly before lifting my eyes to meet his again.
Contact made. Nathan began to apologise.

I started to say that he hadn’t hurt
me, when I remembered that he’d been hurt.
The blood on his
shirt and the dressing on his chest
. The memory on the dark
road was slow to surface. "You were shot," I said slowly, reaching
up to place my hand over where I remembered the blood, the
dressing. I could feel a dressing there still, or at least the
roughness of fabric sliding over gauze instead of skin under his
shirt. He jumped at my touch, as if even the light contact from my
hand hurt him. I drew my hand back.

His answer shocked me. "Yes. So were
you."

I was shot? That’s how I nearly
died?
My thoughts whirled in my head, water down a plughole,
taking me with it.

I could hear his voice continue, but I
couldn’t make out the words any more. I tried to open my mouth to
ask one of the million swirling questions and choked, coughing so
hard I couldn’t get a word out.

Worn out with coughing, I fought to
keep my eyes open.
Will he stay, to make sure I wake up
again?

Somehow he understood. "I’ll be here,"
he promised, a reassuring smile on his face.

I floated away again.

Part 12

When I awoke next, it was daylight.
Last night’s dark window showed sunlight and blue sky. I stretched
and saw the IV was no longer connected to my arm, though the needle
was still taped to my hand.

Time for a walk
, I thought.
Let’s see which hospital this is and what ward. Is there a guard
outside my room or is Nathan all the protection I have? If he is
and they come looking for me...I’m going to die.

Carefully, I sat up and dangled my legs
off the side of the bed nearest the door. The bed was too high up
for my feet to reach the floor. I looked for the buttons to control
the bed so that I could move it lower, then realised that I
couldn’t press them.

I poised myself on the edge of the bed,
hesitating a second because of the half-metre drop. I almost put my
hands on the mattress beside me to take my weight as I slid off the
bed, but then I remembered that my hands were damaged. So, with my
hands up as if to demonstrate how defenceless I was, I gave a
little jump and my feet hit the floor. The impact set my legs on
fire, the muscles turned from ordinary tissue to white-hot molten
metal.

Blinded by pain, I swore through
gritted teeth as I felt myself falling forward with fuck-all I
could do about it. I instinctively stuck my hands out to break my
fall. The bones in my hands caught the same agonising fire before
the rest of my body hit the floor heavily. Tears sprang to my eyes,
but they burned away on my hot cheeks.

Fucking perverted bastards. Bloody legs
that won’t fucking work.

I reached up to the bed, to try and
pull myself up again, before I realised that my useless hands
couldn’t grab anything.

Damn bed too bloody high up. Fucking
linen. Bloody broken fingers...

I didn’t realise I was swearing out
loud until Nathan appeared in front of me, asking what was
wrong.

What isn’t wrong
, I thought
bitterly, as I added to the list of things to swear about. "I can’t
fucking walk and I can’t fucking get up." I felt like biting his
toes off to quell my frustration.

"Here, let me help you." His words were
gentle.

"It’s either that or stay here on the
fucking floor all day," I muttered.

His arms closed around me, cradling me
to his chest, so I could both hear and feel his laughter at my
reply.

Instinctively, I wanted to shrink away
from his touch, from anyone and everyone else, yet at the same time
I relaxed, telling myself,
You’re safe. This is Nathan. He won’t
hurt you.

Nathan let out a small grunt of pain as
he lifted me up. I wondered whether his wound had healed enough for
him to be lifting anything, but he didn’t make another sound as he
carefully put me back into bed, pulling the sheets up to cover me
again. He rubbed his shoulder, almost unconsciously, as he sat in
the chair beside my bed.