Wicked Love by Gianna Gabriela



He said when I wake up. Then I'm not dead? Thank fuck! I'm in the hospital. It explains the beeping noises, which, quite frankly, are really getting on my nerves.

So, apparently, something horrible has happened to me that has landed me here in the hospital. I'm trying like hell to recollect what it could be.

I feel someone else is standing over me. But somehow I know that it's not Weston.

"My sweet baby girl. Mommy's here. If you can hear me, please give me a sign."

The sound of sniffling follows. Mom is here, and she's crying. I want to give her a sign, I really do! But I can't because nothing is working like it should.

"I feel like this is my entire fault. Like maybe I should've kept a better eye on your activities at college."

Oh hell. She's beating herself up. If I could talk, I would immediately blurt out to her that nothing is her fault because I know I have a mind of my own.

I hear distant footsteps getting closer. Someone else is now here with Mom. I hear his comforting words to her. It's my father.

Family dynamics are funny. Not 'har-har' funny, but rather odd. The reality is Weston's connection with Mom is much tighter than mine, though I do love her to pieces, but with Daddy, it's like I can do no wrong. It's the same dynamic between Mom and Weston. He, of course, doesn't see it.

My brother and I are a couple of years apart, but growing up, Daddy was gone a lot, and Mom was the disciplinarian. It seemed like I was forever grounded for this reason or that, but not Weston. All he had to do was turn on the charm, and Mom melted like a snow cone in hell.

I can hear his comforting words to her right now, in that lovely British accent.

"Darcy, love, Carson is strong. She will pull through this, I promise."

"Oh Easton, you can't make that kind of promise. I need her to give me a sign. I've been talking to her for the last two days, and no sign she even knows I'm here."

I want to scream, "I hear you Mom! I hear you Daddy," but nothing will come out. I'm frozen but not cold. I can't feel anything. Am I paralyzed?

My father's voice now sounds tortured. I hate that I've caused this pain to my family.

"Easton . . . don't."

My mother's voice sounds strange. Like there's some dark secret they share.

"My God, Darcy, even you must consider the possibility that this . . . this proclivity could be inherited in which case, I'm to blame."

"Easton, stop, please. We shouldn't discuss this in front of her. But put that out of your mind. I assure you, it's not genetic."

Oh shit. What the hell are they talking about?

"We don't know that, Darcy. Nobody knows if sexual proclivities are a result of nature or nurture."

"Hush, Easton. Let's talk about it later and not here."

Huh?

Sexual proclivities? Did I get here because of some kinky shit Daddy thinks I inherited from them - or, more specifically, him? Isn't that just like parents to want to assume guilt for something they played no part in? I think back to when I was eleven or twelve years old.

I was snooping around in my parents' suite before Christmas. Suffice it to say, I found no hidden presents, but I was able to uncover some . . . well, for lack of a better word, interesting gadgets. At the time, I was clueless about their purpose, but years later, it became perfectly clear to me. Crops, leather harnesses, nipple clamps, furry wrist, and ankle cuffs.

Later on I understood what those gadgets were all about. So, my parents were into some kink? It was no big deal, although I didn't actually want to dwell on it, they were my parents for Chrissake. But now Daddy had just outed himself as being the instigator. Apparently, he thought it was genetic. If I could have mustered up a giggle in Coma-World, believe me, I would have at that moment.

Ah, so yeah, that must be what landed me here. I connect the dots and recall the things my brother Weston mentioned while talking to me, and it now makes perfect sense. I'm sure bits and pieces will surface, though a part of me doesn't want it to because I may not survive the memory emotionally. I can choose not to remember. I'm stubborn that way.

I need to sleep now; to shut out the sounds and let my mind rest. And just as I think that thought, I hear a nurse murmuring something to my parents.

"She needs to get some deep rest, Mr. Matthews. This will help her."

"But all she does is sleep," he argues.

"Comas are not the same thing as restful sleep, Sir. Actually, they can be exhaustive as the brain works to heal. This won't hurt her, Sir. She'll just get the rest she needs."