3: SEDATED SILENCE

Layla's POV 

Night pressed against the window and I lay in the dark staring at the empty chart on the wall, at all the blank spaces where information about my daughter should have been.

No death certificate.

No record of her existence except the empty space inside my body where she used to be.

I couldn't sleep even though exhaustion pulled at me, couldn't stop my brain from cycling through everything that had happened since I woke with empty arms.

The doctor who wouldn't meet my eyes.

The nurses with their vague promises of later.

Claudia's too-tight grip and perfect appearance.

The whispered conversation that stopped when they realized I was listening.

Something was wrong.

I didn't have proof but I knew it the way my body knew my daughter had been real, the way my arms knew they should be holding her.

When morning light finally crept through the blinds I was still awake, my mind racing with questions I didn't have answers to, with plans I couldn't quite form through the fog of drugs and grief.

I would demand the death certificate today.

I would refuse to leave until someone gave me real answers.

I would find out where my daughter was.

The door opened and a man I'd never seen before walked in carrying a tablet, his smile professional and practiced, his eyes assessing me in a way that made my skin prickle.

"Ms Walsh, good morning," he said while pulling the chair closer to my bed. "I'm Dr Mitchell, I'm a psychiatrist here at the hospital and I wanted to check in with you about how you're coping."

A psychiatrist.

They'd sent a psychiatrist.

"I don't need a psychiatrist," I said and tried to sit up straighter even though my body still felt heavy. "I need answers about my daughter."

"I understand this has been an incredibly traumatic experience," he said while making notes on his tablet. "It's completely normal to struggle with accepting a loss like this."

"I'm not struggling to accept anything," my hands twisted in the sheets. "I'm trying to find out where my baby is and no one will tell me."

"The staff have explained that everything is being handled according to protocol," he said, still with that same calm professional voice. "Your continued fixation on these administrative details is concerning and suggests you may be experiencing some difficulty processing what's happened."

Fixation.

Difficulty processing.

Like wanting to know where my daughter's body was made me irrational.

"I heard her cry," I said and kept my voice as steady as I could. "She was alive when she was born and now they're telling me she's dead but I can't see her, I can't see any paperwork, nothing makes sense."

"Trauma can affect memory," Dr Mitchell said while tapping something into his tablet. "It's very common for people who've experienced a loss like yours to have confused recollections of events, to misinterpret sounds or sensations."

"I'm not confused," I said but even as the words came out I felt doubt creeping in because what if I was, what if the drugs and the pain had made me imagine that cry, what if everything I thought I remembered was wrong.

"I'd like to prescribe something to help with the anxiety," he said. "Something to help you rest and process what's happened without becoming fixated on details that are being handled by the appropriate staff."

"I don't want medication," I said quickly. "I need to think clearly right now."

"I understand the hesitation but in cases like yours medication can be extremely beneficial," his voice stayed calm, reasonable. "It will help you get past this initial shock and allow you to begin the grieving process properly."

"No," I said and my voice came out firmer than I expected. "I don't want anything that's going to make me more confused than I already am."

Dr Mitchell's expression shifted slightly, something harder underneath the professional sympathy.

"Ms Walsh I'm concerned that you're not in a state to make informed decisions about your care right now," he said. "The trauma you've experienced can impair judgment and it's important that we do what's best for your mental health."

"I'm telling you what's best for my mental health," I said while my heart started beating faster. "I want answers, not drugs."

The door opened and Claudia walked in looking fresh and perfect as always, her eyes going immediately to Dr Mitchell with a look I couldn't quite read.

"How is she?" Claudia asked like I wasn't right there, like I couldn't speak for myself.

"I was just explaining that I'd like to start her on something for the anxiety," Dr Mitchell said. "But she's resistant to the idea."

"Layla," Claudia sat on the edge of the bed, took my hand in both of hers. "You need to let them help you, you're not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly," I tried to pull my hand away but she held on. "I want to know where my baby is, I want to see the death certificate, I want real answers instead of everyone telling me to stop asking questions."

"This obsession isn't healthy," Claudia said while squeezing my hand. "You need to trust that the hospital is handling everything properly and focus on taking care of yourself."

"How can I take care of myself when nothing makes sense?" my voice was rising and I could hear the edge of hysteria in it but I couldn't stop. "Why won't anyone show me proof, why is everything always later, why does everyone keep drugging me and telling me to stop asking questions?"

Another glance passed between Claudia and Dr Mitchell, another moment of silent communication that made me want to scream.

"I think it would be best if we started the medication," Dr Mitchell said. "For her own good."

"No," I said but Claudia was already nodding, already agreeing like she had any right to make decisions about my body or my mind.

"It's going to be okay," Claudia said while stroking my hair like I was a child. "Just let them help you."

The door opened again and a nurse came in carrying a small tray, on it a cup with pills and a glass of water.

"Doctor's orders," she said with an apologetic smile.

"I already said no," I looked at Dr Mitchell, at Claudia, at the nurse. "I don't want medication."

"Ms Walsh if you refuse to take it orally we can administer it another way," Dr Mitchell said and his voice had lost some of that professional warmth. "But one way or another you need to take this for your own safety."

My heart was pounding now, panic rising in my throat because what did he mean another way, what were they going to do if I refused.

"You can't force me," I said.

"Actually in cases where a patient is a danger to themselves we can," Dr Mitchell stood and I saw him nod to the nurse who moved closer to my IV.

"I'm not a danger to myself," I said while trying to sit up fully, trying to get ready to fight even though my body was weak and I didn't know how. "I'm just asking questions."

"Your behavior is becoming increasingly erratic," he said. "And we have a responsibility to ensure your safety even if you're not currently capable of making rational decisions."

I looked at Claudia, desperate for her to say something, to tell them this was wrong, but she just sat there with her hand on my arm, her face arranged into concern.

"It's for the best," she said softly.

The nurse moved to my IV and I tried to pull away but Claudia held my arm steady, held me in place while I watched the nurse inject something into the line.

"No," I said but my tongue already felt thick, my vision already starting to blur at the edges. "Wait, I didn't agree to this."

"Just rest," Claudia's voice seemed to come from far away even though she was right beside me. "Stop fighting, Layla."

I tried to keep my eyes open, tried to form words to argue but my body wasn't cooperating anymore, everything was getting heavy and distant and wrong.

"—can't keep doing this—" someone was saying but I couldn't tell who, couldn't make sense of the voices that seemed to swim around me.

"—few more days—"

"—then she'll stop asking—"

I wanted to ask what they meant, wanted to understand what was happening but the words wouldn't come, my mouth wouldn't work and the room was tilting sideways.

Claudia's face appeared above me, blurry and strange.

"You need to let her go, Layla," she said and something in her voice was different now, harder, colder. "She's gone and you need to accept that."

But I'd heard her cry.

I knew I had.

I tried to hold onto that thought, that one moment of certainty as the drugs pulled me under, tried to remember the sound of my daughter's voice even as everything else faded into gray.

When I opened my eyes again everything had changed.

The light was different, afternoon sun instead of morning, shadows falling in unfamiliar patterns across the room.

My head felt stuffed with cotton, my thoughts slow and disconnected.

I blinked and tried to focus, tried to understand what was different.

My belongings were packed.

The small bag I'd brought to the hospital sat by the door, closed and ready.

Discharge papers lay on the table beside my bed.

Claudia sat in the chair with her phone in her hands, noticed me stirring and looked up with a bright smile.

"Oh good, you're awake," she said and stood, smoothed her skirt. "I have good news, you're being discharged today, isn't that wonderful?"

I stared at her and tried to make my brain work through the fog, tried to understand how I'd gone from refusing medication to waking up packed and ready to leave.

"What happened?" I asked and my voice came out slurred and strange.

"You've been sleeping," Claudia said while gathering her things. "The doctor said the rest was good for you and now that you're more stable you can continue recovering at home."

"I don't want to go home," I said but even as I said it I wasn't sure if it was true, wasn't sure of anything anymore. "I need to see my baby first."

"Layla," Claudia's voice had that edge again, that hardness underneath the sympathy. "You need to let her go."