Infected

Chapter 19

Blissful, painless sleep. There's nothing like it. I don't need to wonder where I am, or why I have no dreams. I could stay in this state of carelessness for as long as I wanted with no responsibilities.

I'd been in this drug-like coma for hours, or maybe days, I have no clue. But I selfishly took in every moment of silence and solitude. As that glorious state of darkness fades, and acceptance of reality sets in.

I'm not in my home, the smell is a telltale sign of that. It's not the stale cotton and cleaning fluid I'd grown used to. Now I'm swimming in the aroma of deceit. It's tricked me for months, making me believe that everything was perfectly normal.

Opening my eyes is like tearing a phone book in half, they've glued themselves together in the hopes to keep me naive. The room I'm in is triple the size of my bedroom with three sets of ceiling-high windows to my right, opened to let in the breeze with the green velvet curtains tied back by gold ropes. Two doors are across from the king-sized bed I'm tucked into, probably leading to the bathroom and a closet. The door that leads to the rest of the house is on my left, hanging ajar to show a sliver of the hallway. It's a ploy to make me think I'm safe and have the freedom to move about. I push away the thought of the hallway and survey the room again.

It's been haphazardly cleaned, the clutter moved around to make clear paths to the different doors. Books, old and new, are stacked against the dark green papered walls to make room for movement and small tokens are shoved into boxes by the windows.

My arrival must have been short notice, but not unexpected because my captor was able to get an IV stand. It's a newer version, with a saline bag hanging from the hook, on my side of the bed and ready to be used if needed. I don't have a tube in either of my arms, but they are marked with scratches, scabbed over and close to healing.

It's the only thing I know I did to myself. I'd clawed at my skin like a cat does to an expensive chair. Everything else- the painful ache in my muscles, the struggle to keep my tired eyes open, the slight burning along my skin was all done by those I trusted.

Carefully, I toss the thick cocoon of a sheet, two comforters, and an old quilt that I've been wrapped in, and slide out of the bed. My bare feet crack when they touch the area rug, sending cramps up my calves and into my thighs. I stumble but catch myself on the post of the bed. This is going to make escaping that much more difficult.

I shuffle over to the nearest window, squinting against the bright sun. I'm on the second level, facing what looks like a backyard. It's large, expanding a half mile before dense woods cut it off. Walkways are created with flagstones with the one that's the most intricate and wide leading to a garden. It's pristine, even in the tail end of fall, boasting beautiful rose bushes of all colors and topiaries, and off to the side are plots of vegetables and herbs. In the center is a wooden table with a pair of peacock-style chairs. The person who curates the plant life enjoys relaxing around their hard work.

I look directly down, wincing at how far up I am. I couldn't climb out of this window and land on the grass below even if I had my full strength. I'd have to find another way outside, but in the meantime, I needed to get my hands on a weapon. I hobble away from the window and dig through the various unlabeled boxes, keeping my eyes open for an object of protection.

There are no photos or journals to tell me who lives here, just random things that hold no real purpose. I glance over a peculiar set of figurines, carved from old wood to resemble ballerinas. They're beautiful but useless to me. Perhaps in another life, I'd go through and admire them and ask their owner about where'd they gotten them, or if they were handmade.

Frustrated at the lack of tools I go over to the door, daring a peak down the empty hall. The floors are junk-free. My captor prefers hiding their possessions in rooms while keeping the rest of the home clean. The walls are covered in the same forest green paper as the room, filled to the brim with hanging frames of pictures and art. I step out of the room, tiptoeing over to the first set of photos I see.