Incarceration

Chapter Eleven

When I awake, I am naked and completely alone. I try to sit up, using my arms to support my torso, but as soon as I attempt to move, pain courses through my abdomen and I immediately fall back to the table. Unable to move, I simply lie where I am, staring at the ceiling and shivering in the cool air of the surgical room.

I'm not waiting long before the nurses come in. They seem startled to find me awake so soon but hurry to get me a towel and some clothes to wear. They help me sit up and then get to my feet. My knees immediately buckle and I crumple to the floor. Without saying a word, they patiently help me up and half-drag, half-carry me to one of the hospital's resting rooms in the back.

I feel completely helpless; the unpleasant feeling was a familiar one—hauntingly like the one I had when playing the game. Too weak to control any of my limbs, I am completely reliant on the nurses for help.

I lie awake for a while, lifting my chin to my chest and running my hand over the bumpy and coarse staples that bind my wounds shut. My skin is tough and smooth to the touch but then becomes mangled, twisted, and bloody as my fingers begin to approach the sites of the staples, which are crusted over in dry blood.

My legs still have hairline scars dancing around my thighs and calves, but now they are accompanied by deep, dark gashes, messily stuck together with pieces of metal.

I stare at the ceiling for the hundredth time in the past week.

I begin to grow annoyed at my weakness—the fact that I let the game control me, the guards control me, and ultimately the prison control me. The game broke me. I am timid now, living but not living. What life is there to live in a prison, anyway? They're using me. They're being careless. Procedure is being broken and it's causing injuries and suffering.

Anger swells into my chest and I sit up, ignoring the stabbing pain in my abdomen. The "doctors" did not make the staples flexible and they stab uncomfortably up into my chest. I swing my legs over the edge of the table and push myself off. My feet meet the ground, and I immediately topple over myself and collapse.

I fall with a loud thud, hitting my head against the hard floor. My head begins to buzz; the world around me blurs in and out of focus.

With the ringing in my ears and the pounding in my head, I haul myself up, using the bed to pull on as I clumsily get back to my feet. My legs feel limp and weak, and pain surges up from my ankles through my thighs as soon as I transfer all my weight to standing.

I am upright, grinding my teeth and closing my eyes shut, breathing through the pain. I stand for a minute or two before I hear footfalls coming through the hall outside my door. I would love to see the look on the nurses' faces when they come in and see me standing on my own two feet without help, but I have a strong hunch that it would only lead to me getting thrown back in my cell. And for now, I have to remain as free as possible.

I grab the bed and somehow throw myself up. I swing my leg around and roll over, so I am once again staring at that freaking ceiling. The nurses barge into my room. I lift my chin to my chest to look up, acting surprised to see them. They come in, look at my stitches and coat them in a layer of alcohol. It burns as the liquid seeps into my chest, but I stare up at the ceiling and don't even bat an eye.

When they finish their checkup, they bustle out, closing the door behind them. Immediately, I swing my legs over the bed again, but this time carefully lower myself so my feet meet the ground softly.

When I transfer my full weight, my knees buckle, but I catch and straighten them this time, regaining my balance. Breathing heavily, I lift one foot to take a step. The pain shoots upward on my other leg, and I gasp as I try another step.