Loss

Loss
The first thing Mandy felt was light—blinding, sharp light cutting through the darkness she’d been floating in.

Then came the sound. Beeping. Slow, steady, rhythmic.

Her eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurry at first. A ceiling fan turned lazily above her, the blades creaking with every spin. The air smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic.

She blinked again. White walls. IV lines. A heart monitor beside her bed.

She was alive.

Her throat burned when she tried to swallow. She lifted a shaky hand to her neck—something felt wrong. There was tape, gauze… a tube. Panic spiked through her veins.

Mandy’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Not a word. Not even a gasp.

Her heart monitor spiked.

“Miss Vale?” A nurse rushed in, her sneakers squeaking against the tile floor. “It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re in St. Helena’s Hospital. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

Mandy tried again—tried to ask what had happened, where she was, why her voice wouldn’t work. But only a strangled breath escaped her throat.

Her hand flew to her neck again, desperate.

The nurse gently caught her wrist. “You sustained trauma to your throat, Miss Vale. The doctors had to operate to stop the bleeding. You can’t speak yet, but you will—eventually. You just need to rest.”

Mandy stared at her, tears brimming, her mind spinning. Can’t speak?

The nurse adjusted her pillow, her voice soft. “You’re very lucky to be alive. We’ll let your parents know you’re awake.”

But as soon as she left, Mandy’s tears slipped free. The silence was deafening. She tried to scream, to shout, to do anything—but her body betrayed her. Only a silent sob came out.

And then she remembered. The headlights. The screech of tires. The pain.

The face of the man standing in the road before the crash.

She shuddered, clutching the sheets, her breathing turning erratic.

Her eyes darted to the window. A shadow passed by—tall, motionless, watching.

Her pulse spiked again.

Mandy stared at it, her hand trembling on the call button. But when she blinked, the shadow was gone.

She sank back against the bed, gasping soundlessly, tears streaking her pale cheeks. Her mind screamed what her voice could not:

He found me.

The door creaked open, and soft, hurried footsteps broke the stillness.

Mrs. Vale was the first to rush in, her eyes red and swollen, her hands shaking as she clutched her daughter’s arm. “Oh, Mandy…”

Mr. Vale followed close behind, his face pale with exhaustion. He stopped a few feet from the bed, as if unsure whether to move closer. “Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice rough, almost breaking.

Mandy blinked, tears welling up again. She tried to speak, but the sound caught in her throat—nothing but a rasp of air escaped.

Mrs. Vale noticed and quickly shook her head. “Shh, don’t strain yourself,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Mandy’s forehead. “The doctor told us about your throat. You need to rest, alright?”

Mandy’s hands trembled as she reached for the notepad lying on the table beside her. Her mother handed it to her, along with a pen. Her fingers shook as she scrawled across the paper:

“What happened?”

Mrs. Vale hesitated. “You were hit by a car, darling. They said you must’ve been trying to cross the street. You… you lost a lot of blood.”

Mandy’s pen hovered, her brows furrowing. Her memories flickered—headlights, screaming tires, a dark figure standing in the middle of the road.

She wrote again, slower this time:

“Who was driving?”

Her father exchanged a tense look with her mother before answering. “They don’t know yet. The driver didn’t stay.”

Something in Mandy’s chest tightened. Her fingers gripped the pen so hard the tip nearly snapped.

Mrs. Vale’s voice broke the silence, soft but trembling. “We thought we’d lost you, baby.” She pressed her lips to Mandy’s forehead, her tears falling onto the sheets. “I can’t go through that again. Please… just rest, don’t think about anything else.”

Mandy wanted to comfort her, to whisper that she’d be fine—but she couldn’t even form the words. The frustration burned hotter than the pain in her throat.

Then her father moved closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Mandy,” he said quietly, “we’ll find whoever did this. I promise you.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide, pleading. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t an accident. That someone had meant to hurt her.

Instead, she wrote, each letter jagged and uneven:

“He’s watching me.”

Her father frowned, glancing at her mother. “Who’s watching you?”

But before she could write again, the lights flickered—once, twice—and the monitor beeped irregularly. The nurse’s voice echoed faintly in the hall, calling for a technician.

When the lights steadied, Mandy’s eyes darted toward the window again.

The curtain swayed.

Her hand went still.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that reeked of stale whiskey and regret. Music hummed low from an old jukebox in the corner, the melody drowning under the murmur of half-drunk conversations.

Damien sat alone at the far end of the counter, a half-empty glass of bourbon in his hand. His eyes, sharp and unfocused, stared into the amber liquid as though it could give him answers. The faint glow from the overhead light reflected in his irises—cold, calculating, but fractured.

“Rough night?” the bartender asked, wiping down the counter.

Damien gave a dry laugh. “You could say that.” He lifted the glass and took a slow sip, letting the burn anchor him. “Lost my father, lost my temper, and I’m about to lose my patience.”

The bartender hesitated, sensing the edge in his voice, but wisely said nothing.

Damien leaned back on the stool, running a hand through his hair. Kia’s gone. The words echoed in his mind like a wound that refused to close. His father’s death was supposed to be part of the game—collateral, perhaps—but seeing his body bleed out had shifted something inside him. Rage. Guilt. Maybe both.

He slammed the glass down, the sound sharp enough to make a few heads turn. “Pour me another.”

The bartender nodded and refilled his drink.

A moment later, Damien’s phone buzzed on the counter. He stared at the screen. No name. Just a single message:

“She’s alive.”

He froze. The room seemed to tilt for a moment. “Alive?” he muttered, his grip tightening on the phone.

Then another message followed.

“Mandy Vale.”

His jaw clenched. Mandy. The name stirred an old plan, one that had gone sideways too many times. He hadn’t expected her to survive—hadn’t wanted her to. If she could talk, she could ruin everything.

He downed the rest of the bourbon in one swallow, the heat crawling down his throat.

“Another?” the bartender asked.

“No,” Damien said, sliding a few bills across the counter. His voice dropped low, almost to himself. “I’ve got unfinished business.”

He stood, slipping on his coat, and glanced briefly at his reflection in the bar’s mirror. His expression was calm again—too calm.

Then, as he walked toward the exit, he muttered under his breath, “If she’s alive… then it’s time to clean up the mess.”

The door swung shut behind him, the sound of rain swallowing his footsteps.