""Come on, Mimi, time for your meds. Good girl, open up," Damon's doctor voice ordered.
I opened my mouth and let him squirt that damn drug into me, not commenting or making a face; I just kept my expression neutral. I locked my mind as much as I could.
Number Four was reading my latest labs. "It seems to finally be working. We now have a clear drop in her thyroid hormone, almost halved, and as well, endorphins and such are at a much more normal level, almost a bit too low."
Number One just grunted and said, "She will bounce back. Better that they be a bit too low, so no new flare-up comes up, and it seems the binding potion on the babies is finally working as well."
I kept my mouth shut, not saying a thing. This was all my own doing, not his damn drug, just my willpower.
Number Four measured my ankles and skimmed through my urine test results. "Her ankles are swollen, but then again, she is mostly stationary. Her blood pressure has dropped, and there are no urine problems. Of course, she is skinny, but we have to try to feed her as much as possible. However, her veins are getting blocked more, so IV feeding is unlikely. And her stomach is compressed by her womb, so no nasogastric approach is possible either. It is just what it is. She is now almost 20 weeks, so let's see what we can do. It is good she takes things easily."
Number one grunted, turning to number four: "How about Mariella? Her results... I think she should eat a bit more; she seems quite lean."
Number four responded, "Nope. She is not lean, not by any calculation. See, even if I use the most optimistic weight estimates for babies, meaning two pounds, she's bordering on overweight. I know she whines and you give in, but please, she already has a hefty insulin dose, which is one thing making her gain weight. Since she lacks muscle, she's not very ambulatory either. So, no, my diet sticks, and I will cut her calories unless you stop feeding her."
Number one remained silent, not even looking guilty. I got up and waddled back to the elevator, my head throbbing as Mariella had released a pheromonal cloud. It wasn't distinct, but it marked her territory, and it amplified my migraine.
But again, I said nothing. I was utterly, deeply, fucked with everyone, and my explosion would be something nasty once this farce was over. I walked to my sorting room and proceeded with my work, controlling myself as much as I could, hoping that someday I might enjoy my life. If I had been wise, I would have spoken up immediately, perhaps stopping them from using this drug cocktail. But as I am, this was just one more blow to endure.
The lesson would come in time, and it would hit hard, or maybe not. Either way, I was going to see this through, even though it might hurt. Every dose, every day my condition worsened when I didn't fight the drug, gave me more ammunition, made me a bit stronger, showing me I could handle this too. Of course, all I got was a big bout of my nightmare distress syndrome afterward.
But one thing I did all day long was send my love to my fetuses, telling them I was fine, and it wasn't their job to make things easier for me. What I could sense in the hive, however, only made me more angry. Then again, if I exposed this to certain pack members, things might take a turn.
Number One's influence, like a thin layer of tar, was once again pervasive. It whispered of Mariella's vulnerability and my own less-than-ideal attitude. I knew it might be easier to find peace alone, as I felt vulnerable. The shock was profound, and I learned another bitter lesson: never trust Number One. Never believe he had changed or that anything I said could make a difference. Mariella had her hooks in him too deeply, making him a lost cause. The sadness was crushing, but I hid it. It wasn't the time to feel the pain or let others see it, not yet.
Once I recovered, which I knew would take at least a few days to rid myself of this drug, I would begin to feel better. The drug layered itself mercilessly in my mind and body, suppressing everything and leaving me dizzy, without appetite, and without a sense of safety. It was a whirlwind of nausea, dizziness, helplessness, isolation, and weakness. But I doggedly focused on the fact that I would survive this. I would emerge victorious.
My vision swam, and I noticed I was holding a crystal ball, with no idea why. It took a few minutes for my drug-addled brain to process and understand: drop the ball in the correct basket, take the next, and continue. The sense of vulnerability and weakness was awful. It made me feel so wrong and weak.
As I looked at my hands, I saw how skeletal they were again. Despite the stress, my body had stopped using nutrients effectively. The babies were fine, but I knew it would be another hard task to regain my weight. My trust in Number One's medical expertise was nonexistent.
At one point, I began to understand, clinically, where he might have gotten his idea. But then again, I was his wife. He knew my issues, and I couldn't help but wonder about his deeper motivations. The scariest fact was that he might not even know them himself.
"Come on, honey, drink up. It's food. That's it, drink it, sip it. Oops, let me wipe you," Charles muttered as he cajoled me into drinking yet another drugged meal.
I could taste the drugs, but I didn't say or do anything. I just sipped, feeling the liquid pour from the corner of my mouth as my muscles failed to obey. I was literally drugged into a drooling state, but I tolerated it.
Fucking hell, I was just letting them do this to me. Part of me, maybe, thought I deserved this; part of me was fucked up and pissed off, and I was collecting material for my lessons. And part of me, well, I didn't care. Let them drug me, let them abuse me mentally, and then it's useless to whine to me about me not trusting them or wanting them near me.
I was a masochist, sure. A wiser person would have made it clear this wasn't the right way, but then again, Damon was stubborn and wanted to be right, though he wasn't. I didn't have enough brainpower to really understand all his motives, maybe someday.
As I was sipping my meal, I heard Damon explaining to Charles that the drug didn't sedate me, only calmed me. But in reality, he wasn't in my mind, not checking up. Did he know? Or was it just his arrogance? I had no idea. I didn't show outwardly that I was suffering, that this was actually nastier than being sedated.
My mind was paralyzed, my body didn't work, my senses were dulled; I was in this damn, helpless limbo, utterly unable to function, or at least not the way I wanted to. My body felt heavy, cumbersome. I had no connection to my feelings, not in the way I normally did. And I was a freaking creature of love! I let my hand flop on my lap, just by passing, and checked my enzymes. Yep, quiet. Freaking hell.
The recovery would be difficult, and I knew I wouldn't be in a good mood for a long time. Only time would reveal the full depth of my condition. Ironically, or perhaps revealingly, the individuals assigned to numbers five, two, nine, and ten were mostly downstairs or with the children, minimizing their contact with me.
Wulfe, however, was kept busy by Damon, who, though worried, used clinical jargon to sound authoritative enough for Wulfe to accept the situation. Damon had also severed my connections with others, and I overheard him instructing them not to probe my mind, as I might seem confused.
It was stressful for telepaths, and besides, Mariella's unborn babies needed at least one more potion; perhaps Wulfe could also concoct a potion for Mariella's gestational diabetes. I just wanted to be left alone; I'd be fine. Once this crisis subsided, it would be easy to erase it from my mind, but I wouldn't let that happen. This time, Mr. Salvatore's quick fixes wouldn't work on me. It was just my luck.
They had never taken my blood values when I had MDNS, so they had no idea – or at least, that's what Damon might say. In truth, any clinician could estimate the abnormal values based on my behavior, despite Damon's boastful claims of knowing my system.
But my guess was that Mariella had once again whispered to Damon, urging him to trust his clinical judgment. These blunders, if you could call them that, had become more frequent, highlighting just how much I am a creature of love. I guess Mariella saw it as a threat or something; I haven't got a clue.
My life seems to be full of shit, but I was slowly and doggedly creating my recovery plan, and it would demand a lot from me, as I was going for something I hadn't done before. It was a huge ask for me, but then again, it was time for me to change my ways as well.
While this wasn't ideal, especially since I was pregnant and supposed to be enjoying my life, I was determined to give lessons to certain pack members. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could get this cleared up so it wouldn't happen again. My mind was a mess, muddled, and it was difficult to form any coherent thoughts.
Most of the time, I just sat, staring dully at the crystals, unsure of what to do.
Luckily, I had previously dictated little orders for myself, placing them between my songs on my playlist, like my own voice saying, "Sort the crystals, read the label, and place the correct crystal in the correct basket."
Of course, I didn't always get it right, and I could see the worry on Charles's or Damon's faces when they came to fetch the crystals and found mistakes. But then again, Damon would sweetly explain it away, claiming it was the tranquilizers that were making me confused, or a drop in my thyroid hormones.
It's understandable that I struggled to sort the crystals correctly, considering my condition. I was tranquilized, my hormones were suppressed, my babies' powers were bound, and I was silenced, meaning my pheromone glands were shut down. I was on a heavy dose of modified neuroleptics, seizure medication, and several other drugs.
It was also strange that no one seemed concerned as my state worsened, rather than improved, as the drugs accumulated in my system. My hormones were suppressed, my body went into a messed-up state, with no enzymes, which then affected my skin, my digestion, my mind, and my blood.
I had no idea when I'd last showered; had it been days? How long had this been going on? What poor state would I be in afterward? Would I even have a chance at a real life before the babies arrived?
The sorting room was essentially a bedroom. Yellow curtains, the exact shade of which I couldn't quite place, hung at the window. I vaguely knew the term, but my mind refused to cooperate. The rugs were inexpensive, a gray-brown boucle with indistinct patterns, and they looked slightly dirty. In the thin, wintery light, I saw dust motes dancing in the air, a testament to the running air conditioning.
As for my clothes, I had to look down to even register what I was wearing: a simple, oversized t-shirt draped over my swollen belly, maternity pants, and slippers. I had no idea how long I'd been dressed like this. There was no memory of a shower, though perhaps someone had cleansed me with energy at some point.
My hand trembled as it reached for my hair, which was a greasy, knotted mess, far from any semblance of a hairstyle. I knew I was a wreck, but I accepted it. Recovery would come, and with it, the truth, which would undoubtedly hit hard. But I wouldn't dwell on it. I was determined to move on, to learn, and to hope for a better tomorrow.
If that "Mister Fucking Salvatore" couldn't do the same, well, too bad for him. Let him have his next crisis and see if this time he succeeds in killing me or my babies. He clearly didn't realize, or maybe he did, what he'd done to me. If he knew, it was a damning revelation of how he saw me.
It was time to move on, to find my happiness and love where I could, and to stop pining for him. If he knew how nasty this all was for me, truly, he didn't love me. My mind churned, the same thoughts looping endlessly, unable to break free.
Sure, I sorted crystals from time to time, and drugs, but I was sinking deeper into a sense of helplessness, a nasty feeling of losing my mind, losing myself. I literally gritted my teeth, clinging to what was left of myself as my personality seemed to unravel, a terrifying feeling, a truly nasty one.
I was determined to emerge victorious, understanding that this experience would stay with me. I planned to conceal it so deeply that even Wulfe might not discover it immediately. While he could mitigate the immediate trauma, within the depths of my mind was a vault – the vault of lessons. This would be its final resting place, remaining with me always.
I could only hope to learn from these lessons, so that one day, they would cease to exist, replaced only by lessons of love, trust, care, and happiness; perhaps someday.