me, wildly confused.
"I'm scared," I whisper, because I am. I'm scared out of my mind.
His eyes soften. "Don't be scared. I got you."
I nod, but his words don't soothe me. Nothing about this place makes me feel safe, not even him.
He leads me toward the back door, the opposite direction of the voices, and outside. He holds my hand tight in his, and I know it's not to make me feel safe, but to make sure I don't run.
"Blake, remember what I told you. You run, Cole's dead. You wouldn't want that, now would you?" Dean asks in a soft voice that contradicts the severity of his threat. He says he wouldn't kill for anybody, and I wonder how much truth is in that. It doesn't matter, the threat is there and I have no desire to find out whether or not they'd do it. I can't afford to mess around, for all I know these are the people who killed Maggie. That thought alone churns my stomach.
"No, I wouldn't," I whisper. "I won't run, I promise."
"Good."
I take a deep breath and let the fresh air fill my lungs. I've smelled the nasty smell in the room for so long, I'd forgotten what breathing clean air is like. When the sun hits my face, I begin to weep quietly. When Dean opens the door of the pick up truck we're riding in, I wipe the tears from my eyes. He gives me a sad look and slumps his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, chick. Really. This is just the way it has to be," he says as I climb in.
I don't believe that he's sorry. If he had the chance, I think he'd do it all the same. He followed me around for who knows how long. He told me I had a price on my head. He knew about my fucked up past, saw my lovely life, and he still tore me from all of it. I try to huff in response, but instead I fall into a full-out cough attack. As he pulls out of the immense driveway and into the neighborhood, I look for anything that may look familiar. Most of the houses are huge and far apart from each other. It's very much a white picket fence community. I'm being held hostage in the middle of a safe, high class neighborhood. The irony.
We drive about twenty minutes, listening to Nickelback, of all things. Might as well kill me now. We pull up to a cottage-looking house and he tells me to wait so he can open the door for me. I let out a frustrated breath, which makes him laugh. I don't understand why we stopped here to begin with. He drags me to the front of the house and knocks on the door three times. An older gentleman with a white beard in a doctor's coat greets us. This can't be the doctor he brought me to. I'm sweating a fever that I've had for almost a week, I've been coughing up a lung, vomiting, and he brings me to see this old man at his house?
I narrow my eyes at Dean and stomp inside. The old man looks at me over his glasses and extends his hand out to greet me.
"I'm Dr. Kellogg. Dean tells me you've had a fever for a couple of days and haven't been feeling well?" he asks patiently.
"That's right," I reply with a cough. I extend my hand. "I'm Blake." I look around, quickly averting my eyes from his curious look. The house is cozy; I can tell he has a wife to look after him.
"Blake," he repeats with a smile as he shakes my hand, "let's go to my clinic."
I follow him to the back of his house. Dean is behind me and has his hand on the small of my back. I turn around and glare at him before I slap his hand off. He chuckles softly and shakes his head.
When we get to the room, Dr. Kellogg opens the door and ushers me in. "Now Blake," he says, handing me a robe, "I need you to undress and put this on."
I reach out and clutch the robe to my chest. "Thank you." I raise an eyebrow at Dean. "I'm not undressing in front of you two," I say flatly.
"Of course not. We'll step outside and give you privacy," Dr. Kellogg says.
"She's not staying here alone," Dean counters.
"Dean, I'm not going anywhere. This room doesn't even have windows," I snap.
"What if you try to kill yourself with one of his tools?" he asks as he waves his hand at some scalpels
"I'm scared," I whisper, because I am. I'm scared out of my mind.
His eyes soften. "Don't be scared. I got you."
I nod, but his words don't soothe me. Nothing about this place makes me feel safe, not even him.
He leads me toward the back door, the opposite direction of the voices, and outside. He holds my hand tight in his, and I know it's not to make me feel safe, but to make sure I don't run.
"Blake, remember what I told you. You run, Cole's dead. You wouldn't want that, now would you?" Dean asks in a soft voice that contradicts the severity of his threat. He says he wouldn't kill for anybody, and I wonder how much truth is in that. It doesn't matter, the threat is there and I have no desire to find out whether or not they'd do it. I can't afford to mess around, for all I know these are the people who killed Maggie. That thought alone churns my stomach.
"No, I wouldn't," I whisper. "I won't run, I promise."
"Good."
I take a deep breath and let the fresh air fill my lungs. I've smelled the nasty smell in the room for so long, I'd forgotten what breathing clean air is like. When the sun hits my face, I begin to weep quietly. When Dean opens the door of the pick up truck we're riding in, I wipe the tears from my eyes. He gives me a sad look and slumps his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, chick. Really. This is just the way it has to be," he says as I climb in.
I don't believe that he's sorry. If he had the chance, I think he'd do it all the same. He followed me around for who knows how long. He told me I had a price on my head. He knew about my fucked up past, saw my lovely life, and he still tore me from all of it. I try to huff in response, but instead I fall into a full-out cough attack. As he pulls out of the immense driveway and into the neighborhood, I look for anything that may look familiar. Most of the houses are huge and far apart from each other. It's very much a white picket fence community. I'm being held hostage in the middle of a safe, high class neighborhood. The irony.
We drive about twenty minutes, listening to Nickelback, of all things. Might as well kill me now. We pull up to a cottage-looking house and he tells me to wait so he can open the door for me. I let out a frustrated breath, which makes him laugh. I don't understand why we stopped here to begin with. He drags me to the front of the house and knocks on the door three times. An older gentleman with a white beard in a doctor's coat greets us. This can't be the doctor he brought me to. I'm sweating a fever that I've had for almost a week, I've been coughing up a lung, vomiting, and he brings me to see this old man at his house?
I narrow my eyes at Dean and stomp inside. The old man looks at me over his glasses and extends his hand out to greet me.
"I'm Dr. Kellogg. Dean tells me you've had a fever for a couple of days and haven't been feeling well?" he asks patiently.
"That's right," I reply with a cough. I extend my hand. "I'm Blake." I look around, quickly averting my eyes from his curious look. The house is cozy; I can tell he has a wife to look after him.
"Blake," he repeats with a smile as he shakes my hand, "let's go to my clinic."
I follow him to the back of his house. Dean is behind me and has his hand on the small of my back. I turn around and glare at him before I slap his hand off. He chuckles softly and shakes his head.
When we get to the room, Dr. Kellogg opens the door and ushers me in. "Now Blake," he says, handing me a robe, "I need you to undress and put this on."
I reach out and clutch the robe to my chest. "Thank you." I raise an eyebrow at Dean. "I'm not undressing in front of you two," I say flatly.
"Of course not. We'll step outside and give you privacy," Dr. Kellogg says.
"She's not staying here alone," Dean counters.
"Dean, I'm not going anywhere. This room doesn't even have windows," I snap.
"What if you try to kill yourself with one of his tools?" he asks as he waves his hand at some scalpels
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