Standing near the window was his mother, Lorraine Collins, her arms crossed tightly across her chest as she stared out at the parking lot below. There was no sadness on her face, only impatience, as if the entire situation were an inconvenience that needed to be resolved quickly so life could continue uninterrupted.
Time passed in a blur. Medication pulled me under again and again, dragging me into shallow unconsciousness where minutes stretched and collapsed without shape. My body refused to respond when I tried to move, and my tongue felt thick and useless when I tried to speak. Despite that, my hearing remained sharp, and that was when I began to understand just how deep the betrayal went.
Late in the night, when the hallway had grown quiet and the lights dimmed, their voices drifted toward me, low and urgent, spoken with the confidence of people who believed they could not be overheard.
“She will not remember any of this,” Lorraine whispered, her tone firm and commanding. “The medication is doing exactly what the doctor said it would.”
Raymond responded calmly, almost casually, as if they were discussing household errands instead of my life. “We just need her fingerprint. Once that is done, everything transfers automatically.”
Panic surged through me, flooding my chest and making my heart race, but my body remained unresponsive. I tried to move my hand. Nothing happened. I tried to force a sound from my throat. The air would not obey me.
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