Silence was the main occupant in room 4327. The constant beeping of various computers chimed and rested as the afternoon progressed. Silent chatter and conversations flowed through the vents and unclosed doors. The calm inside of this particular department was the main concern. It revealed whoever was in a room like this was either going to live or live without a conscious life. Lifeless bodies without a captain to guide the hollow interior.
Time kept me in a dormant phase for two months. Two months of coma revitalized my mind and body. My past life as a caterpillar, sterile and naive to the outside elements, had nurtured itself. I was stronger mentally and my mentality was strengthened. I came from the deepest depths to blossom to the highest heights of life.
My eyes lazily opened, embracing new life. I was in and out of consciousness. I was as confused as someone spun around for a piñata contest. The surrounding light was being absorbed and was embraced. The new me was born. Room 4327 birthed a life, enhanced and upgraded, to the new world. Tragically, even in this new phase of my life, I was still connected to the old one as I noticed my right wrist was tethered to the bed rail.
My new pulse's rhythm alarmed the nurses who were on duty. Two, of the many, came into my room. They investigated the alarms, analyzed the readings on the monitors, and were astonished of the new current events that came to light. Nurses flooded my room like young women at a R&B concert. The first thing they did was to make sure I was conscious and coherent. Faces upon faces introduced themselves while taking turns with inquiries. They assured me that I was safe and in good hands. I could not remember how I even gotten to the hospital. Comfort words were being thrown at me. All statements and interactions towards me, ended with the word safe. My level of anxiety was at an all-time high.
A doctor stepped into the room and the band of nurses parted the room to make a way for the specialist. He walked towards me, where I laid, with every stride gleaming with confidence. The doctor was a medium-built, had white skin tone, and was tall in stature. He might have been six feet tall. His complexion was fair and he wore a five o'clock shadow. He was mid-aged; possibly in his 40s. A stethoscope hugged his neck and hung down his stain-free, bright white lab coat.
"Good afternoon! I'm doctor Michael Morrison. You are definitely a fighter!" the physician said, "Sir do you know where you are? You are a very lucky guy!"
I tried to respond, but all I could do is nod. The nod was more of a confused reflex.
"Sir you were shot multiple times and when you arrived, you were severely wounded. You lost an abundance amount of blood and that was in March. You went into a coma soon after. We are now towards the end of June now," he explained, "Do you understand what has happened to you, sir?" he asked.
"I un-understand. Has anybody tried to find me or was anyone looking for me?" I questioned.
"Unfortunately, no one is on the visitation log," he answered with pity. "Maybe no one actually knows what happened to you," he tried.
He then turned around to analyze my IV bag and delegated instructions to the staff.
"Administer 0.3mg of Propofol in the IV," he directed to one nurse.
As he turned back around to me, he stated, "I'm going to give you a mild sedative to take the edge off. I will be back later on today to check on you to see how you're holding up. Please just shout out to one of us if you need anything, alright?"
My eyes were trained to the ceiling. I started to feel how my body was becoming heavier and heavier with sleepiness. Whatever the doctor added to my IV is spreading inside my body like wildfire. All my senses were diminishing and weakening as time progressed. My brain was still filled with fragments of what was done to me. I struggled to roll over to tuck my thin white sheet farther over my legs and pushed my body deeper into the mattress. The bed was foreign, filled with metal springs, unlike my own familiar one, which was newer and packed with foam and feathers inside. The sand man was sprinkling grams, at a time, of his specialty sand over my face. While drifting off, it was first the light sleep, then deeper and deeper, past the fluffy dreams of love and fields of roses, past the strange dreams of anxiety and irrational fears, past the darker dreams of death and loss. I was at ease with peace. I was in a place that did not exist— sopor.
Three, maybe four, hours went by and it was now early evening. The sun was still radiant and using its tentacles to reach the four corners of the room. I was listening to the random rumbles and growls that my stomach was producing. With every burble, I proceeded to rub and feel the vibrations in my stomach. I was then abruptly interrupted with someone clearing their throat.
Off towards the corner of my room, where the door was located, was someone sitting in one of the chairs. As I leaned forward for my eyes to focus better, I could see that it was a familiar face. In a flesh was Detective Serrano. He had all of my medical documents in his hand and was going through all the pages to read what was written.
"Good afternoon sunshine! They tried to get you, but they can't kill you!" he said with a chuckle. He gotten up and walked up to my bedside to inspect the restraint that was tied to my hand. Serrano softly asked, "How are you holding up in here?"
"I'm doing alright. I am just taken back. Everything is going too fast. They said I was in a coma!" I replied perplexed.
"Yes, it's true. It is all true. I have some news for you though. I hate to cut to the chase, but you are looking at some jail time. It should not be anything severe, but you in fact fled a crime scene." he explained.
"I didn't do anything to anyone, I swear. It was all wrong place, wrong time and—" I tried to clarify.
"Listen, I will tell you right now—" Serrano cautiously said. "I do not think you did anything. This is not you. I think you were set up if I had to guess. I've been doing this job for 32 years and I have a good idea who done this to you and if I am right then they won the lottery. Literally! Plus, if I'm still correct, then they have a penthouse across town at the top of a high-rise."
Even with all the series of events that transpired, Shan and Bryant were still not able to get a payout for my death. I was still alive and kicking. However, they still got more than they planned for and it was not from the result of my death warrant. It was from a lottery that they apparently won. The love of money was the root of their evil.
