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After that night Amanda—Aaron threw her out—she was hit with a fever that left her in bed for days, her limbs aching and her nose clogged. It was unbearable, yet she survived all by herself in her room.
Amanda clutched the CT scan in hand, clutching like her life depended on it as she bit her lower lip in anger, enough to draw blood and taste metallic in her mouth.
"Think, Amanda. Think," she muttered, hitting the side of her head like it could help her with her predicament, her voice hoarse from the aftermath of the fever. "You can't give up like this," she gritted, the corners of her eyes squinted in thought.
She couldn't give up after everything. After how long she has come.
Her phone buzzed once beside her, and Amanda jumped, flinching from the sudden sound as her heart figuratively stopped for a moment when she saw the caller ID on the screen.
Marcus.
Her nightmare.
Her living hell.
