A scream wails past my lips as a layer of sweat covers every inch of my body and my nails claw the sheets. Bolting upright, I pant as my eyes dart around the dark room and my mind races, trying to place where I am. Fear works through me and before I can compose a coherent thought I crawl out of the bed. Running out of the bedroom, my bare feet stomp down the stairs and I hurry for the front door.

Tears fall from my eyes as my hand closes over the brass doorknob and two strong arms wrap around me pulling me back.

“No! Let me go,” I cry as my fingers slip from the doorknob.

Struggling to break free from the arms that bind me, I kick my legs and elbow the man in his stomach. A groan rumbles in my ear followed by a curse then I hear him whisper my name.

“Jesus, fuck, Ally, it’s me,” Deuce growls, tightening his hold around me. “Damn it,” he mutters, rubbing his hands down my arms. “You’re okay.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jack calls from the top of the stairs. A moment later his son starts to cry and something breaks inside of me. I sob, falling back into Deuce’s strong embrace.

“Nothing, we’re all good here,” he says. “Go back to sleep,” he adds, sighing as he leads me toward the couch. Senselessly, I cling to him as he gently deposits me onto the couch.

“You sure?” Jack asks, halfway down the stairs.

“I’ve got this,” he calls over my shoulder. Slowly he inches back causing me to immediately grip his shirt and draw him back to me.

“Don’t let me go,” I beg, burying my face in the concave center of his chest.

“Okay,” he mutters as he continues to hold me.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that, if it's seconds, minutes or more, but neither of us makes an attempt to move until my tears have dried and the dire need for comfort fades. Shame washes over me as I realize I’m holding onto Deuce for dear life and it’s then that I quickly drop my hands from his shirt. Turning my eyes away from him, I mindlessly stare at the muted television.

I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to explain my actions. I ignore him because the truth is I have no idea how to explain what just happened.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, keeping my gaze pinned to the actress on the television who is holding a gun. The cushions of the couch dip and he sits beside me.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, leaning back. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” I reply quickly, finding the courage to meet his gaze. “I don’t.”

If I never uttered another word or relive another horrifying experience, it would be too soon. This morning when I agreed to take that first step, I was a desperate addict looking for a reprieve from the withdrawals. There may have been a small part of me that believed I was making a good choice. A little piece of me that wanted to take back my life. All that changed when I stepped foot inside the hospital.

I didn’t have a problem with hospitals, it was doctors that fucked me all up. The day before I sat in the waiting room for hours while they operated on Jagger and it didn’t bother me.

That was yesterday.

Yesterday I wasn’t the patient.

Yesterday I wasn’t the center of attention.

My story wasn’t the object of everyone’s curiosity.

Believe it or not, there was once a time when going to the doctor wasn’t so scary. A time when my brother and I would compete to see who was taller, and every visit ended with a lollipop.

That’s not how it went down today.

I could count on one hand how many times I had seen a doctor in the last few years. The first time was after the Russian made me swallow a balloon full of drugs and it burst inside of me. A doctor on his payroll came to the warehouse he was holding me in and performed emergency surgery right there. Luckily all I got was a six-inch scar on my stomach and not a deadly infection.

The second time came when Rush had claimed me. Wanting to make sure I was clean of any STDs, he took me to a real doctor’s office. Granted it was a clinic on the outskirts of town, but the guy at least had a license to practice. Instead of a lollipop as a parting gift, the good doctor gave me an IUD. Later when I got the flu, and he made a house call to the clubhouse, I learned he was on Rush’s payroll. Any other time I was sick, the house doctor was called and a script was waiting at the pharmacy for Rush or one of the guys to pick up.

Though I’m sure there were several other instances when I should’ve been brought to the hospital, today was the first time I was actually treated inside of one and it wasn’t pleasant. I don’t know which part was worse, the physical examination when they shoved a Q-tip up my vagina and took swabs of cells to test or maybe the countless vials of blood they drew. It could’ve also been the psychiatric evaluation or simply a combination of everything. It was as if these people were peeling back the layers of armor, exposing all the ugliness the drugs kept buried deep within me. Whatever the case may be, I felt more violated in those few hours than I had in the twelve years I was a prisoner.

Today opened my eyes to how bad my life had been over the last few years and I started to doubt how anyone could ever bounce back from that. More importantly, how I could bounce back from that and be the girl who strikes the match.

It started to seem like the drugs were the least of my problems.

By the time I was done, I had a script for methadone and a craving to get higher than a fucking kite. I wanted to forget every little detail I was forced to relive. I wanted to forget the botched surgery and the doctor that made house calls, only I didn’t know how to.

Lacey and Blackie brought me back here and that’s when I found out the cops were looking for me. I barely survived the trauma of a doctor’s visit and now law enforcement wanted to question me about my disappearance. They wanted to chip away at what was left of me and make me reveal more than I was ready to.

That’s when I learned Deuce had gone down to the station and spared me any more grief by giving them a statement of his own to tide them over. It was a nice gesture, one he didn’t have to make. A gesture I had yet to thank him for since I had fallen asleep long before they released him and he returned to Jack’s.

“I know what you did today,” I whisper, turning toward him.

His eyes stare at the TV as he lifts a hand and combs his fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t do anything your brother wouldn’t have done himself,” he replies.

“My brother,” I repeat, shaking my head. “Why is it so hard for me to wrap my head around that?”

Tearing his gaze away from the screen he looks at me, causing his forehead to crease as he narrows his eyes at me.

“Why is it hard for you to wrap your head around the fact your brother would’ve done something for you?”

I shake my head.

“No, I can’t even comprehend that my brother is in my life. I saw him, I heard his voice, and even though he’s in bad shape he’s not a dream anymore, he’s not a wish. He’s real. A person of flesh and bone.”

After a while, as one year became two and so on and so forth, I gave up on my family, believing they had already given up on me. It didn’t matter that I was the one who had gone missing. I had written them off just the same as if they were the ones lost. Like they assumed the worst, I guess I did too.

“Maybe it would help if you saw him, if you spent some time with Celeste,” he suggests. “It might make it more real. It might start to sink in.”

“Jack said he’d take me to see him when I’m ready,” I whisper, pausing to glance down at my hands. Twisting the sleeves of my shirt nervously, I draw in a deep breath. “I almost went to see him today but I stopped myself.”

“Why?”

Shrugging my shoulders, I divert my eyes to the digital clock displayed on the cable box and fight not to countdown until my next fix of methadone.

“I don’t want to watch him die,” I say finally.

“He’s not gonna die.”

“You don’t know that for a fact.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as he releases a yawn. “Had he not seen your face or heard that his little girl was safe and sound he probably would’ve checked out for good. Everything changed the second Celeste told him Skylar was okay and he looked into your eyes.”

Picturing my brother as a father isn’t something I ever thought about and at the mention of Skylar I wonder what kind of dad he is. Does he get up early on the weekends and take her out for pancakes like our dad used to? Is he overly affectionate? Is he a sucker for her smile? I bet he is. I bet that little girl has him wrapped around her finger.

“What’s Jagger like?” I ask absentmindedly.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself,” he replies, reaching in between the couch cushions separating us. Pulling out the remote he points it to the television.

“He’s a good guy,” he adds after a moment then drops the remote onto his lap and turns to me. “He never truly gave up on you if that’s what you’re asking. Your brother carried a piece of you with him every day you were missing.”

“He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to,” he says. Lifting his hand, he brushes a strand of hair away from my face. Staring into my eyes, he tips his chin. “You lived in his eyes.”

Before I can attempt a response, he quickly drops his hand and turns back to the television. Pointing the remote, he raises the volume and props his bare feet on the coffee table in front of him. Contemplating whether or not to ask him what he meant by that, I follow his lead and stare at the screen.

Deuce yawns as he folds his hands behind his head and soon after I yawn too.

“What are you watching?” I ask sleepily.

“The greatest movie of all time,” he mumbles.

Being someone who hardly watched movies, I didn’t understand the fascination, but the couple robbing a bank were clearly one of Deuce’s favorites. Sighing beside me, he closes his eyes as I continue to stare blankly at the television.

“Bonnie and Clyde,” he mutters.

“Never heard of them,” I reply before closing my eyes too.

I fall asleep before I get the chance to know who Bonnie and Clyde are but make a mental note to learn more about them.