(Humungous praise to beta: Donna! "If there's a way to do it better … find it!", by Thomas A. Edison)
Christian isn't coming to see me.
I just couldn't, can't, believe it.
He loves me. He loves me and I need comfort and support. Someone to hold me and tell me everything is all right. He loves me and that's what people do and say when you're hurt and need comfort.
I guess he doesn't love me that much.
I heard his voice sometime after the shoulder surgery. I was in recovery, supposed to still be asleep. But I guess they were cautious about knocking me out because I was lying there carefully propped on my left side between bolsters, eyes closed, awake before they thought I should be.
I felt him. The air is charged, at least for me, when he is nearby. I felt him and was building up the strength to open my eyes and try reaching out for him – I didn't know my arm was bound to my body then. But he spoke first. In that snooty, upper crust way he got from all that fancy schooling and trips with his parents to foreign places. No, that's not fair. He just talks … cultured. Angry and cultured. And mean.
"She's ruined. Look at her, Taylor. She's just ruined."
Is he talking about me? I'm not ruined. I'm right here. Me. Ana. His Anastasia. Maybe he means Elena, the bitch, and I've just misunderstood him.
But the sense of his presence left and I drifted off to sleep.
I was insistent on using the bathroom, sometime later. After what I went through, I was really insistent on using the bathroom. No bedpans, don't even think about sticking a tube up me. So two nurses helped me. This is a nice place. Big bathrooms. With mirrors.
There's some long lanks of hair left. I didn't count them. The rest is shiny bald skin. I guess kinda pinkish white. Cuts in some places. They wrote on me. My face. Henna? That's my guess. Or a reddish brown marker. CUNT. SLUT. WHORE. It's written across my forehead, each cheek. My face is pasty, strange-looking. I don't recognize the eyes – they're sunken and lack any kind of life. The nurses wipe me off and, careful of my shoulder and the myriad other injuries and bruises, help me back to the gel-mattress hospital bed.
But I still couldn't believe that, even looking like this, Christian wouldn't come to me. I mean, it's just temporary. The henna will fade away. I can use make-up. And my hair … well, I'll just have to shave it all off, start over. There have been bald women for movies, runway models, and they're beautiful. It'll grow back. Really. Surely Christian knows that. And the injuries will heal. I'm a fast healer. I've told him that.
But he doesn't come.
And he's not going to.
I know security is at my door. But they don't come in either. The nurses don't look at anything above my shoulder.
Dr. Lowe and Dr. Bossley check on me. My shoulder has been so severely damaged that Dr. Bossley feels it will need at least two more surgeries in the following weeks. He's distant and hesitates when I offer my left hand to shake, thanking him. Then, he just pats my shoulder over the large cast-like bandage and leaves. Dr. Lowe simply says, "We'll fix you up, Anastasia. Good as new. It could have been much worse." Then he rattles off medications, treatments, his recommendations for psychiatric treatment due to trauma. And he reassures me that my almost surreal calm and lack of real feelings is normal after everything I've been through.
I guess I was only in that basement dungeon for two or three days. It felt like weeks. Real. Long. Weeks.
Guess … it's time I helped myself. I think I've been here, wherever here is, for four days, possibly five. It's Friday. I know that. And if Christian isn't going to see me, if I'm ruined for him, then I need to get on with my life and the recovery that is going to be so long and be painful on so many levels. There's no phone in the private room. When I asked one of the nurses about making a call she looked scared, and then tried to casually say that I wasn't well enough to use a phone yet. It wasn't the stupidest response she could have come up with, but one of the top five.
Cell phones are used everywhere these days. Even in hospitals. It's simple enough to palm one from the pocket of a nurse as two of them help me to the bathroom. The huge cast makes me off-center and I'm still shaky due to the designer street drugs I was shot up with, so I get help any time I move. Taking the phone was a surprising success. I thought the woman, or the other one, would notice. But they didn't. I only have a few minutes of privacy to use the toilet, so I do something that I never ever would have thought I'd do.
I text my Dad's cell phone with the code he gave me the day I left for college. 42. That's all. No name, no address, nothing else. Just 42. I slip the cell phone back into the nurse's pocket when they help me back to bed.
I look around at the large floral arrangements. Black-Eyed Susan, Hydrangea, and Peony. Encouragement, perseverance, and healing.
And then I sit back to wait and see what happens.
Ray Steele's Point of View
It takes Merlot all of twenty-three minutes to trace the text, dig out the woman who owns the phone, find out where she works which zeroes in on where the phone is presently located. Pennsylvania Street Health and Wellness. Annie's not registered as a patient, but it's enough to get everyone headed to the US Army Corps of Engineers site in Seattle. Rosenstock is farthest at Tyndall Air Force Base in Panama City, Florida; but he hops a flight from the 325th Fighter Wing and shoots out within fifteen from my call. Greco starts working on strategy while MH gathers what we need. Linds arrives just as I do and I shake his hand before we enter a secure planning room. The two uniforms outside the doors salute us, ramrod straight, knowing that whether the men who enter here are uniformed or not, they deserve the respect. They're right.
I immediately see a lot of things. The room goes silent as I look from screen to screen. Merlot has hacked the hospital's security system and Annie's chart is up, as well as pictures. Ah, God. My Annie.
"We can move her, just have to be careful," Greco states. I know he is calm and controlled so I don't go off. "She's gonna need medical and psychiatric care."
Rosenstock made it here before me. They've got some fast jets at Tyndall. "I'll take her. My Base is setup for what's needed. And secure."
Linds has been reading the chart data. I'm still staring at the pictures of my beautiful little girl, beaten, torn apart, abused. He taps his fingers on the table top. "Ambulance with medics. Easiest on her body."
Merlot finishes what he was doing on a computer. "It's a fucking little, very well-endowed, off the grid hospital. Almost all the inpatients and surgeries are injuries involving partner or group related accident." My eyes hit his. I neither want nor need evasions and careful wording. "BDSM treatment facility," he elaborates succinctly.
I never should have let her out of my sight. "Let's get the plan in place and go get our baby." My baby.
Sawyer's Point of View
I stare at the nursing center, automatically noting what is going on, feeling that it is normal. I can do that. Behind me, in her room, I can feel what's not normal as well.
Fuck Grey! He needs to get his head out of his ass and be with her. Ana's like a doll right now. They position her and she just stares at them. She nods and shakes her head. I'm not sure she is really seeing and hearing anything. In point of fact, I know she's not. She's in shock. Post-traumatic shock. They've had four different psychiatrists in with her and she just stares at them, nods or shakes her head. One of them lifted her left arm and it just hung there, mid-air, as if she had no control over her own limbs.
I'm getting choked up so switch my thoughts. Grey doesn't want anyone talking to her, seeing her, interacting with her for any length of time. Maybe Dr. Flynn told him that, or maybe what's been done to Miss Steele has influenced those orders. She needs to see people she knows. It can only help. But she really needs to see Grey. The last thing she said was to ask about him, Prescott told me.
But there's been no getting through to him. Not yet. Taylor's told me both Dr. Flynn and Dr. Lowe have told him, multiple times, that it is worse for both of them if he doesn't get in here to see her when Ana's awake. T says Grey's traumatized by how Miss Steele looks, what's been done to her. Well aren't we all?! But he needs to move past it and be in here with her. Talk to her, hold her, tell her she's safe and he won't let anything ever happen to her again. As it is, if she doesn't snap out of it Flynn will be flying her to some fancy psychiatric facility for admission.
I take a deep breath, hold back a yawn. Then take another deep breath. It's getting hot in here. AC probably had to shut down and take a break since it's almost eighty-five outside. I look to the right and Ryan is going down. Just going down slowly, knees bending and back to the wall on his side of Miss Steele's door. His eyes are shut. What the fuck is wrong with him? Alarm! Dammit, Sawyer, alarm! Protect Ana! Pro…te…
Story three of It's Gonna Hurt will wrap up this fan fiction story of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey. Will there be a Happily Ever After? Of course. Will it be easy? Um. What happens to Elena? Ain't tellin'. All those questions about Ana's abduction … I'm going to use flashbacks to hopefully answer them. Will there be amateur lemons? Best I can squeeze. Also, no cheating. Oh, please note that I have made it clear in these stories that they are not meant to fictionally depict mainstream BDSM; but just as there are only a few Catholic priests who abuse children under their care and it makes a terrible stink for the Catholic Church, so too is there some Domme pedophiles who give BDSM a bad name! Thank you for reading. Sincerely, Hard Pouncing.