Unhinge - Calia Read Page 0,66

tell myself. It’s a trap.

But I can’t. Two words keep echoing in my head: Bad mom. Bad mom. Bad mom. They become louder until it feels like they’re being shouted into my ear with a megaphone.

Reagan sees my turmoil. She laughs, slowly at first, and soon she’s clutching her gut, tears streaming down her face she’s laughing so hard.

The color red leaks into my vision. It’s all I can see. The anger inside me, which has been simmering for days, finally comes to the surface. It bursts so abruptly that I have no time to think about my actions.

I climb over the table and tackle Reagan to the floor. I’ve taken her off guard and knock the wind out of her. I use it to my advantage.

Shouts and screams echo around me. Chairs scrape against the floor. There’s the shuffle of people moving. Yet I don’t stop. My hands wrap around her throat and I squeeze as hard as I can.

“What about you, Reagan?” I pant. “Tell me your fucked-up story.”

Her face is turning blue. I keep squeezing, even when I see the fear in her eyes. I press my thumbs deeper into her skin.

“Tell me what you’re running from,” I demand.

I’m going to let go. I swear. I just want to show her that she’s gone too far. But someone’s hands land on my shoulders. “Victoria!” Sinclair shouts behind me. Where did he come from? “Let go.”

He tries to pry my hands away from her, but I have the strength of twenty men.

“Tell me!” I scream at her. Reagan weakly slaps at my hands. Her legs kick beneath me.

It takes him two more tries before Sinclair finally pulls me back. He holds my wrists together, behind my back, like I’m a criminal.

My heart is pounding against my ribs. I can’t catch my breath, and you know what? It feels good.

“You know nothing about me, you stupid bitch!” I yell.

Reagan sits up with the help of two nurses. Color slowly comes back into her face. She greedily sucks up all the air she can and then starts laughing uncontrollably. “Bravo! You’ve come alive, Victoria.”

“You are a fucking psychopath.”

Reagan looks wounded by my words. I smile breathlessly and open my mouth to say more. I have hundreds of insults lined up, just waiting to be said. Who knew I have so much pent-up anger?

I’m ripped out of Sinclair’s grasp. Two nurses drag me farther away from Reagan. I kick my legs, trying to fight them. Sinclair stares at me with pain in his eyes and I know it’s because of me. I brought that pain to him. I start to panic. He’s seen me snap. He’ll never come back. I’ll be alone when I’m just now seeing what we were.

“Sinclair,” I say. He says nothing. “Sinclair. I’m sorry.”

The nurses push me down the hall, toward the women’s ward.

“Sinclair, I’m sorry!” I scream.

The doors open, and with all my strength I turn to escape the nurses’ grasp. But they have a firm hold on me. The doors slam shut and Sinclair’s face is gone.

I go limp and let the nurses drag me into my room. They put me on the bed and I stare up at the ceiling. I feel numb.

Before the door shuts, one of the nurses tentatively asks, “Do you want Evelyn?”

I turn my head.

There should be a desperate urge inside me to see my child, there should, but there isn’t. I picture holding her and every time I look down at her face, there’s nothing there. What if she was there during the fight? In my dark haze of anger would I have still protected her? I want to say yes. But something holds me back. I’ve never had anger that strong and powerful that I become a completely different person.

Maybe I did the right thing by handing her over to the nurse. That’s the only silver lining in this entire ordeal.

“No.”

The door shuts behind the nurse and I curl into a ball.

I feel myself coming apart at the seams.

I still want to hurt something…someone. Anything I can get my hands on. At some point in the afternoon, the nurse brings Evelyn into the room.

She’s been crying nonstop. I walk over to her bassinet. And stare down at her.

Bad mom, bad mom, bad mom…

I cover my ears, so desperate to get Reagan’s voice to stop. I will take the medication the nurses give.

I’ll do anything.

I start to pace the room, carefully counting my steps. My room is small. I