rubatosis
(n.) the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat
MILA
I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of Ronan. He might not be in the hospital room with me physically, but his presence was everywhere.
After the doctors examined me, I often thought they rushed out of the room, phones to their ears, to update him on my condition. Only D’yavol would receive that sort of hasty, nervous response.
The first conscious day in the hospital, a boy delivered a mini fridge full of vegan meals, a bag of dog food, and a note.
Eat.
—Ronan
I would have rolled my eyes at the demand a couple of weeks ago, but this time, it brought a smile to my lips and a throb to my heart.
Ronan had pulled some strings threatened someone to allow Khaos to stay with me, and I knew it because a dog’s portrait in the universal red no-entry sign decorated the wall outside my room. The gesture filled me with relief, because I didn’t think I could handle being alone with my thoughts right now. Khaos was the only thing holding me together.
Most of the staff steered far away from the surly tempered German shepherd, but a no-nonsense older nurse pushing into her sixties took the initiative to take him outside for bathroom breaks, even chiding him when he growled at her, which confused him enough to go along with it.
The second day, the boy delivered a new laptop loaded with every season of Forensic Files and another note.
If you want to know how to kill someone and get away with it, you only need to ask.
—Ronan
The third day, the boy delivered Pacifica shampoo and body wash, and, of course, a note.
Stop arguing with the nurses.
—Ronan
This time, I did roll my eyes. Not only was Ronan being informed by my doctors, it seemed my nurses were tattling on me to him too. I’d refused to bathe after having one of the staff read me the ingredients on the back of their shampoo. The bottle was practically stuffed with a tiny murdered animal. When I finally washed my hair with Pacifica, my heart trembled little beats of longing.
The fourth day, the boy delivered two suitcases filled with clothes. Dresses, sweaters, underwear, shoes—it was practically an entire new wardrobe.
There are three pairs of pants under all that yellow.
Wear them.
—Ronan
He wished.
Though I was more than relieved to get out of my hospital gown. My wound had healed enough I could wear loose-fitting clothes without worry of chafing. The doctors—and when I said “doctors,” I meant ten of them—were pleased with my condition enough they told me I could be discharged in a couple days. As much as I wanted out of the hospital, nerves turned my stomach about what I would do when I left.
The fifth day, the boy delivered another package. Déjà vu raised goose bumps on my arms when I opened the box. It contained another lemon-yellow faux fur coat with “Kotyonok” stitched on the collar.
Get it dirty.
But NEVER again with blood.
—Ronan
I put it on and fell onto the bed like I had a month ago in an entirely different situation, my heart thumping hard. I pressed my nose in the fur, hoping—needing—it to smell like Ronan. It didn’t. And as the ache in my chest rose to burn my eyes, Khaos nudged me with his head. I cuddled up beside him and whispered to him and another who couldn’t hear, “Ya lyublyu tebya.” I love you.
The sixth day, the boy delivered a new iPhone, my passport, ID, an obscene amount of cash, and a plane ticket to Miami that left the next day. My hands shook as I picked up the note and read it. A single tear fell, smearing the ink.
This ISN’T proshchay.
—Ronan
The seventh day, I was being discharged. The nurses packed up my things while I sat on the bed, knees to my chest, waiting. Waiting for the boy to arrive and give me something else from Ronan. Anything.
But he never came.
Heart heavy, its beat rebelling in my chest, I gave one last look at my hospital room before walking out. A car picked me up and drove me to the airport while I moved on autopilot, unable to do anything as my body was pulled in two different directions.
I boarded the plane to Miami and froze in the service door, my heart beating so hard it stopped me from taking another step.
“Devushka, vy zaderzhivayete ochered’,” a flight attendant told me. When I blankly looked at her, she must have realized I didn’t know much Russian. Though not understanding her wasn’t why I was cemented in confliction. “You are holding up the line,” she repeated softly in English.
Throat thick, I forced my feet down the aisle with Khaos following behind. He’d gotten his own seat. I wasn’t sure if that was allowed either, but rule-breaking seemed to be Ronan’s thing.
I gave Khaos the window seat. It was his first plane ride after all. I rested my head against his soft fur and refused to cry, even as the raw ache in my chest grew heavier and heavier the farther we flew from Moscow.
