Sam.

~~~

A week later I sat on the edge of the examination table, my legs dangling, the sterile scent of the doctor's office dense in the air, sticking to the back of my throat. The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, starkly contrasting the muted heaviness that pressed against my chest. My fingers traced the edge of the shoulder splint, the one I'd been wearing on and off for weeks. They took out stitches back in Los Angeles and the pain was lesser but now came the hard part.

The moment had come to take it off completely. To see if I'd healed enough to move on from the physical weight of that night. But the emotional scars? They still felt fresh, raw.

The door creaked open, and Dr. Bennett stepped in with a smile. It was one of those practiced smiles, the kind that tried to offer comfort but never really reached the eyes. I tried to mirror it, but my stomach twisted into knots.

"How are we feeling today, Samantha?" he asked, his voice calm, measured.

"Better, I think," I replied, though my words felt more like a question than an answer. The truth was, I wasn't sure how I felt anymore. The pain had become a constant companion, always lurking in the background, a dull ache I'd learned to live with. But today, it felt different.

He nodded, moving closer as he gently started undoing the straps of the splint. The moment the fabric came off, a chill hit my skin, and I couldn't suppress the wince that followed. I braced myself for his touch, his fingers prodding the bruised skin, testing for flexibility, and movement.

"How's the pain?" he asked, his gaze flicking to mine as he pressed lightly against the shoulder.

"Still there," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "Not as sharp as it was, but... it's still constant."

He made a note on his clipboard, and I watched him, hoping for some reassurance.

"That's to be expected," he said. "It's been a significant injury. Your body's been through trauma." He paused, glancing up at me. "But we'll start physical therapy to help with mobility. It's going to take time, but you should eventually regain full use."

Time. Everything always came down to time.

I sighed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Time felt like something slipping through my fingers, like sand that I could never quite hold on to. The idea of waiting more, suffering more, was almost unbearable.

"And the pain?" I asked, my voice quieter now, the question hanging in the air between us.

Dr. Bennett studied me for a moment, then nodded, his expression softening. "It should get better. But I can see you're still uncomfortable. I'm going to extend your prescription for pain relief, though. Just be cautious, Sam. I know it's been hard, but you don't want to rely on them too much."

I nodded, taking the paper he handed me, but a wave of guilt settled in my chest. Relying on them too much? I knew that was the truth, and Ray kept pointing it out as well, maybe I needed to feel the pain. Maybe that way as the pain goes away the visions of that day can dull as well.

Dr. Bennett offered another smile, this one a little more genuine. "Physical therapy starts tomorrow. We'll go slow, but you'll get there."

I forced a smile, grateful but overwhelmed. "Thanks," I mumbled, then left the office, clutching the prescription like it was a lifeline.

The next day, I found myself in the waiting room for physical therapy, the soft hum of hospital machinery buzzing in the background. I couldn't shake Dr. Bennett's words. You'll get there. But when?

My thoughts drifted to Ray—his worries about my pill usage. He stuck with me though, caring for Rose when I couldn't, standing by my side when I felt like I was falling apart. Despite the ache in my shoulder and dull pain in my neck and head, I needed to stop taking pain meds. I felt more numb than usual ever since the shooting, and not just on the pain part but rather emotional numbness.

The therapist entered, smiling brightly, but I barely noticed her. My reflection in the mirrors caught my eye—hollow eyes, a weary face, someone who didn't feel strong anymore.

"Let's start slow," the therapist said, her voice soothing yet firm. "We'll work on mobility today. It might hurt, but remember, this is part of the process."

The process. That word had become a constant in my life lately. Everything was just a process, and it felt never-ending.

I nodded, rolling my shoulder as instructed, biting back the groan that wanted to escape when the familiar pain shot through my muscles. Each movement felt like a battle, each stretch a reminder of how much farther I had to go.

I clenched my jaw, my eyes watering from the effort. The room felt stifling, the mirrors mocking me as I struggled to lift my arm above my head. Even the smallest movement sent fire running up my shoulder, sharp and insistent.

"Good, you're doing good," the therapist reassured, but I barely heard her. The frustration in me was mounting. Why wasn't this getting easier?

An hour later, the session was over, and my body felt drained in a way I hadn't expected. The therapist gave me a few exercises to do at home, but all I could think about was the bottle of pills sitting in my bag, waiting for me.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, the prescription burning a hole in my thoughts. Dr. Bennett's warning echoed in my mind, but the pain was unbearable. I needed relief, even if it was only for a little while.

With a sigh, I opened the bottle, my fingers shaking as I took more than I knew I should. The bitterness of the pills clung to the back of my throat, but the relief I was hoping for didn't come. It never did.

The next day, I went back for another session. Each movement in my shoulder felt like a punishment, every stretch a reminder of how much further I had to go. I gritted my teeth, trying to hide the pain, while the therapist's voice guided me through each exercise. She was calm and reassuring, but I could barely focus. The pain was all I could feel.

"Lift your arm again, Samantha, just a little higher this time. You're doing great," the therapist encouraged, her voice warm, but firm.

I clenched my jaw and raised my arm slowly, inch by inch, feeling the sharp pull in my shoulder. Every movement sent a jolt of pain coursing through me, sharp and unrelenting. My body felt like a betrayal like it had turned against me, refusing to cooperate with even the simplest of commands. I had once been so in control of myself, and my life. But now, every action, no matter how small, felt like a battle, both physically and emotionally.

The mirror in front of me reflected the tension etched across my face—my brow furrowed, my lips pressed into a thin line. The movement was minuscule, but it felt like I was trying to lift a mountain. My arm trembled under the strain, and I could feel the sweat starting to bead on my forehead.

The therapist nodded approvingly, her gaze soft but encouraging. "Good. Keep going, just like that. This will get easier over time."

Time. That word again. The one that always seemed to haunt me. Time for my shoulder to heal, time for my mind to settle. I swallowed hard, the frustration rising in my chest, almost choking me. Time. I was running out of it. It felt like everything was slipping through my fingers, including myself.

As I moved my arm again, a fresh wave of pain rippled through my shoulder, and I gasped, stopping mid-motion. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I shook my head, barely able to hide my disappointment. This wasn't supposed to be happening. I was supposed to be healing, moving forward. But all I felt was broken.

The therapist's voice softened, her tone more compassionate now. "That's enough for today. You've done really well, Samantha. Don't push yourself too hard. We'll take this step by step."

The walk to the door felt endless, each step heavy with exhaustion. When I finally made it outside, I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on me—my injury, the pills, the truth my parents never shared with me. It was all too much.

Once I was in my car, I exhaled shakily, resting my head against the headrest for a moment. My fingers trembled as I reached for the bottle of pills in my backpack. My body ached for relief, the kind that only the pills could bring, even if just for a little while.

But I stopped myself, staring at the pills in the bottle. The car was silent, save for the faint hum of traffic outside. My phone buzzed on the seat beside me, dragging me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glanced at the screen. It was my father, Richard.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. The last thing I needed right now was a lecture, but I knew I couldn't avoid him forever. Richard had a way of getting under my skin, always reminding me that I wasn't living up to his expectations. I stared at the phone for a moment longer before bracing myself pressing the answer button, and tossing the pill bottle into the glove compartment.

"Hey, Dad," I greeted, my voice flat, the weight of everything I was holding back in the tone.

"Samantha," Richard's voice came through, brisk and authoritative, just like always. "We need to talk. I've been waiting for you to make a decision about the position at the publishing house, and I can't keep putting it off. You need to start thinking seriously about your future."

I closed my eyes, feeling that familiar tension settle between my shoulders. My future. As if I wasn't already drowning in uncertainty. My life felt like a series of broken pieces, none of them fitting together.

"I'm still figuring things out, Dad," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, but the frustration was creeping in, just beneath the surface. "I'm not ignoring it."

"There's nothing to figure out," Richard snapped, his voice growing colder, sharper. "You have everything laid out for you, and yet you're choosing to live like a—what?—a starving artist? Writing books that no one will ever read? It's time to grow up, Sam."

His words hit harder than I wanted them to, a sting that went straight to my chest. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep the retort I wanted to say from spilling out. There was always that undertone in his voice, that implication that my writing, my passion, wasn't real work, not for me anyway.

I tightened my grip on the phone, my knuckles whitening. "It's not just about the money or the job, Dad. I love writing. It's not something I can just give up because it's not convenient or doesn't fit into your plan."

Richard let out a long, disappointed sigh, the kind that always made me feel small. It was the sound of him seeing me as a child again, not the adult I was trying so hard to be. "Samantha, you need to stop chasing this fantasy and face reality. Your writing isn't going to build a life for you. You need something stable, something secure. What happens when you run out of stories to tell, or when no one's interested anymore?"

I felt a sharp pang in my chest at his words, the insecurity that I had worked so hard to bury now surfacing, raw, and exposed. What if he's right? What if the books dry up, and all I have is this half-healed body and no future to fall back on?

But I couldn't let him win. Not again. Not after everything I'd fought for. Not when I had carved out even the smallest space for myself in the chaos of my life.

"You don't get it, Dad," I said quietly, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to stay calm. "I'm not giving up on something I love just because it's not safe. I've already risked everything for Ray, for this life—"

"Raymond isn't your career, Samantha," Richard cut in, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "He's another distraction. You're throwing your life away, one distraction after another. First, it was running off to follow that rock star, now it's hiding behind your writing. You're not seeing the bigger picture."

My heart sank, my chest tightening with the pressure of his words. He never understood, I thought bitterly. He never even wanted to understand. Ray wasn't some "distraction," and writing wasn't something I was hiding behind. They were the only parts of my life where I still felt alive, where I wasn't being crushed under the weight of expectations.

I didn't respond right away, letting the silence hang between us, thick and suffocating. It felt like I could feel his disappointment seeping through the phone, settling deep into my veins. I closed my eyes, wishing I could escape it, even for a second.

"You know," I said finally, my voice soft but firm, fighting the tremor that wanted to sneak in, "it's not always about stability, Dad. Sometimes it's about doing what makes you happy, even if it's messy and uncertain."

I could practically hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. "Happiness doesn't give you status, sweetheart," he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're a grown woman, and it's time to start acting like one. You're either going to take responsibility for your future, or you're going to wake up one day and realize you've wasted your life."

My throat tightened, the familiar knot of guilt and anger twisting inside me, but I couldn't fight him anymore. Not today. I was too tired—too sore from the therapy, too worn out from constantly trying to prove I could balance it all.

"I'll think about it," I muttered, my voice flat, the words tasting like defeat in my mouth.

"That's all I'm asking," Richard replied, his tone softening just slightly now that he had gotten his point across. "But don't take too long, honey. You don't have the luxury of wasting more time."

The call ended, and I stared at the phone in my hand, feeling the weight of his words settle on my shoulders. His expectations, the uncertainty about my future. How could he publish other people's books and not believe in my writing? And why did that bother me so much? Maybe because it simply meant my Dad didn't see my writing as worth something more than to be something stored but not shared.