The Illusion of Annabella Read Online Free PDF Page A

don’t have any idea what’s making him sad. Plus, I’m so tired. So very, very tired.
     
    I think I’ll go to sleep now.
     
    Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .
     
    Beep . . .
     
    ***
     
    I feel like I’m swimming in a sea of glitter.
     
    I open my eyes and see the monitors, tubes, and cords attached to various places on my body. Shock ripples through me. Where the hell am I?
     
    “You’re in the hospital, sweetie.” An unfamiliar voice scares me half to death. “Just relax. Everything’s going to be okay.”
     
    I jerk to the right but immediately regret it as pain radiates through my skull.
     
    A woman is standing beside the bed that I’m lying in, carrying a clipboard. She’s wearing scrubs with penguins on them, her auburn hair is pulled into a tight bun, and a stethoscope hangs around her neck.
     
    “You need to take it easy,” she says, setting the clipboard down.
     
    “Who are you?” I croak, my throat feeling as dry as sandpaper.
     
    “I’m your nurse. My name is Marcia.” She points to the nametag pinned to her shirt. “I’ve been taking care of you for over the last week.”
     
    My eyes snap wide and the heart monitor beeps wildly. “For over a week ?”
     
    She nods, studying the monitor. “Sweetie, you need to relax. Your body’s been through a lot.”
     
    My body? Been through a lot?
     
    I throw the blanket off my body, but the movement yanks at the IV in the back of my hand. I cry out but, determined to see the damage, use my other hand to lift off the blanket. My knee and thigh are wrapped in a bandage and my leg is elevated, but my toes and everything else appear intact.
     
    “Thank God.” My hand falls to my stomach, and I relax against the pillow. “For a moment there I thought I was missing a leg or something.”
     
    Marcia smiles rigidly. “No, everything’s still there. You did have to have surgery, though.”
     
    “But I’m going to be okay, right?”
     
    Her smile dwindles. “I think I’m going to go call your brother and tell him you’re awake. The sweetheart’s been here day and night waiting for you to fully wake up.” Her shoes squeak against the floor as she heads for the door, forcing a high-pitched laugh. “Figures the moment he left, you finally decide to wake up.”
     
    “My brother? What about my—”
     
    She hurries out the room before I can finish, leaving me alone with monitors and cords and a ton of questions. I try to recollect the last thing I can remember. My birthday. Glitter rainstorms. The car ride to the store. Real rainstorms . My mom lying to me. My dad looking so happy to be in the world. Deadly rainstorms . . .
     
    A lump forms in my throat, my pulse accelerates, and the monitor announces my panic. Panic that’s painful. Hot. Sweltering.
     
    “I can’t breathe,” I gasp, clasping the base of my neck. “I can’t . . .” My vision spots as the room crumbles and fades.
     
    I hear the thudding of footsteps. Someone mutters something about a sedative. Cold liquid spills into my veins and submerses the panic inside.
     
    Life feels like a dream.
     
    I kind of wish it were.
     
    ***
     
    When I open my eyes again, my head feels groggy and my eyes droopy. But the panic has dissipated, and I calm down even more when my brother’s face appears above me.
     
    Loki’s here. Everything’s going to be okay.
     
    This is all a dream I’m going to wake up from.
     
    “Thank God, you’re awake.” He lowers his head into his hands, and his shoulders tremble.
     
    I think he’s crying, but that can’t be right. Loki doesn’t cry. Loki, the philosopher who once said that crying was a pointless emotion people use when they’re lost.
     
    Is that why he’s crying?
     
    Is he lost?
     
    “It’s going to be okay.” My voice sounds faraway, like an echo.
     
    I reach out to him and put my hand on his shoulder.
     
    He trembles even more.
     
    The monitor beeps numerous times before he sucks in a breath, mutters something