Echo(60)

Her body suddenly jolts, hands cup her ears, and her face pinches as she releases a ghastly scream. Horror storms through me, and I grab her shoulders to pull her up.

Her eyes are clenched shut as she cries out, “It’s so loud! Make it stop!”

“Make what stop? Tell me what’s going on,” I urge.

She reaches her hand back behind her, and as I’m trying to get her to open her eyes and calm down, I’m horrified when I catch her clawing at her scalp. She writhes, hissing in an agonizing breath. Urgently, I scramble around her, grabbing her arms to restrain them behind her back. She struggles to get loose, but I tighten my hold when I see the grotesque scab that she’s dug her nails into and ripped off.

Fucking Christ, this girl is having a complete breakdown.

“Stop fighting me,” I demand harshly.

But she doesn’t stop as she cries out, “It’s so loud. Let go of me!”

“Breathe. Stop fighting me and just breathe.”

I then let go of her arms, but quickly pin them to her sides when I band my arms tightly around her chest, taking control over her. It’s harder for her to fight me and jerk around from this position, but she keeps trying. So, I hold her until she begins to tire, all the while, doing my best to keep an even tone as I continue my attempts to soothe her, repeating over and over, “It’s okay . . . You’re safe . . . Breathe.”

When her body weakens, losing the tension, and sinking back into me, I release my firm hold on her. She’s quiet and pulls in long, deep breaths. I don’t know what the f*ck is going on with her, but I do know she’s losing her shit. The fact that she’s hiding away here and inflicting these attacks on her body is beyond disturbing. One has to wonder if she’s suicidal. And the fact that I just caught her having a full conversation with someone that doesn’t even exist anymore is insane.

I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t leave her alone here. God only knows what she’ll attempt next. So, I stand and gather all the papers that are strewn on the floor, then scoop her up into my arms. Her blood is all over me and streaked down her face. Her body folds into me, and I get her the f*ck out of here.

“Is she okay? Where are you taking her?” Isla asks in worriment as I make my way to the front door.

“She’s fine. I’m taking her to my place.”

Walking out into the biting chill of the night, I put her in my SUV. She doesn’t speak; she’s completely absent. I strap the seatbelt around her and start heading to my house.

While I drive, I pull out my cell and make a call to a friend of mine whose wife is a doctor. I stress to my friend the urgency of the situation, and after he explains what’s going on to his wife, she agrees to meet me at the house.

Once we make it back to my place, I carry her in my arms upstairs to get her in the shower and cleaned up. She’s totally withdrawn as I begin to remove her clothing. When I have her stripped down, I’m appalled by what I see.

She’s covered in a vast array of bruises: blue, purple, green, yellow, brown. They’re all over her chest, stomach, and thighs—blotches of muted colors.

“Did you do this to yourself?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes downcast and doesn’t utter a word. “Look at me.”

But she doesn’t.

I duck my head to try and catch her eyes, but I get nothing but desolation. Turning on the water, I strip my clothes off as well and then help her into the shower. She stands, unmoving, as I wash her. The water turns red as it runs over our bodies, taking the blood down the drain.

I keep moving to distract myself, but after we’re both clean, everything slows. Standing under the hot water, I see a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s severed and lost and weak. She’s nothing like the woman I met in Chicago—Nina. And I begin to wonder how different these two people truly are.

Who is Elizabeth? Is she anything like Nina? Strong? Snarky? Funny? Smart? Who is this girl standing in front me?

I run my hands over her cheeks and cup her jaw, angling her head up to me. Her eyes shift to mine, and as I look into her, I murmur, “Who are you, Elizabeth?”

She blinks, no expression to her face, and after what feels like hours, she finally responds in chilled words, “I’m nobody.”

And as mad as I am at her, as much as I hate her, as much as I want to celebrate her downfall, I have the urge to convince her that she is someone. I want to remind her of all the reasons I fell in love with her, but who’s to know if those reasons were just products of her deception. I need a ballast of understanding with her, but I don’t know if that will ever come.