Chapter 6

I almost waited for the voice to say something as I sat on my bed staring at the bottle of pills. It had been silent during the trip to the pharmacy and on the way home. I popped the top off and shook the bottle, almost as a threat, but still, there was no response. 

I shook my head. 

Really, what were you expecting to happen? 

I took the meds with a bottle of water and lay in my giant bed, covering myself with Allie's blanket. I swear I heard the voice whisper to me, but before long, the darkness of my room swept over me, and I was fast asleep. I didn't dream that night or any other in the past two weeks. The days seemed to drag on, and a small part of me missed the voice.

Ironically, I found my work more lifeless than before. I had painted this woman's thumb six times before I realized Mr. Babineau was talking to me.

"Wren, did you hear what I said?" He questioned.

Not a word…

"I'm sorry, I was focused," I said with a smile.

He gave me a quizzical look and inspected the heavily painted nail before repeating his words.

"I need you to pick up two bodies from the hospital morgue at about 3 pm.", he repeated.

"Of course," I nodded, looking over to the coffin clock. 

Damn, is it already 2:15? 

"I'll get the van ready…" I said, looking back at him. 

He smiled and turned on his heel, "Thank you, Wren."

My head was elsewhere when I merged on the highway, heading toward Mercy Hospital. All I could think about was the voice in my head…

 Maybe the raindrops on the windshield or the screeching tires in front of me finally shook me from my thoughts as I slammed on the brakes. I tried to avoid the stopped cars before me, swerving to the right and onto the shoulder of the highway. I breathed a sigh of relief when I was jolted forward, slamming my forehead against the steering wheel. My head throbbed, and a steady stream of blood trickled down my face. 

I lay my head against the steering wheel for a moment, trying my best to gather the strength to get out of the van and assess the damage. Attempting to unhook my seatbelt was more of a challenge than I had anticipated and I struggled for a few moments before I heard the sirens of the approaching ambulance and fire truck. 

When they finally stopped, two rugged men approached the van and opened my door. 

"Ma'am, are you hurt?" they said in sync. 

"I think I'm okay, but I'm stuck. It won't unlock", I told them. 

"Ma'am, we need you to remain still until we can cut you out of the car," the more rugged of the two said before walking back to what I assume was the firetruck for a tool.

The other man knelt, looking up at me, seeming far less concerned, almost relaxed. 

"What's your name?" He asked. 

"Um, Wren. Wren Oubre", I stammered. 

"Well, Wren, it looks like you have a nasty cut right here on your forehead. Would you mind if I took a look at that for you?" He asked gently. 

I attempted to nod yes, but it throbbed at the first sign of movement. 

"Use your word", he commanded.

"You may", I answered. 

His eyes finally looked into mine as he began to assess the wound, and I almost gasped. Staring back at me were the softest brown eyes that sparkled with a golden hue, reminding me instantly of the woman my mind had made up a few weeks back. 

"Is this real?" I asked.

His eyes looked at me, and a grin tugged at the corners of his perfect lips. 

"What makes you assume it isn't?" he asked, his eyes returning to the wound he tended. 

"I have schizophrenia; sometimes I see and hear things that aren't there," I said plainly. That was the first time I had told anyone outside of Allie and my Aunt Lisa. 

He looked almost pained to hear my words but didn't look back as he swallowed hard. " This is real. You were hit by a truck, you hit your head, and your seat belt is locked. I am tending to the wound on your head. This is real."

I had calmed down when the other firefighter returned, wielding a significant tool I had never seen before. He delicately cut the seatbelt that held me in place, checking with each cut whether I was free or not. I felt my body fall against the steering collum when it finally snapped. The rush of pain made my vision blur and my side throbbed. 

The golden-eyed fireman reached in, his strong hands gripping my legs and waist, and placed me onto a waiting stretcher. My side ached, and the pounding in my head felt like standing under the speakers at a Tool concert. My eyelids felt like lead as they threatened to close, but with the last bit of strength I could muster, I grabbed the golden-eyed man's hand and begged him to save my life, my eyes not leaving him for a moment. When I could no longer keep them open, and the darkness set in, that old familiar voice called me.

Not yet, my little Wren. Not yet.