Wretched Edge: Infirmity

Hollowhead

     The last time I'd seen a human face, it was the face of a woman I'd never seen before, as she slid an old plastic bag over my head and struggled with me to put me out of my misery. I was a sick dog to her, and her grisly act of empathy placed me in a state of rest that was lasting but mortal.

     My unwillingness to die must have tugged on the old man's heartstrings, because the next face I saw was his as his grip on my midsection jerked my brain back to life and urged me to sift through the murky waters pooled behind my eyes. I remained still, watching my feet drag across the floor of some sort of hallway or tunnel with pipes running along its walls, seeming to never end, wanting to speak but being unable to so much as twitch a finger. My head dangled to the side, unsupported and swelling with pain I was aware of but could hardly feel.

     I don't know how long I was dragged before the old man laid me out on a stretcher. My vision was blurry and swirling and tightness was starting to develop in my gut as I continued to try to move, to no avail. There was nothing I could do to externalize my anxiety besides make my eyes dart back and forth and clench, unclench, clench my jaws. 

     Suddenly, bright light poured into the room I was in, turning the dark blueish-green swirl of shapes I was seeing into a sterilized white swirl of shapes. LED lighting, I assumed. I must be in a hospital room. I can't move. A wet cloth, warm, was swiped over my face, stopping at my mouth. Whoever commanded the dripping rag started scrubbing my chin and jaw, then my neck.

     Pain, red-hot and consuming, lit my neck on fire. A scream produced itself, but I couldn't open my mouth to release it. The energy traveled to my hands, which to my surprise, clenched onto the cold metal edge of my stretcher. The agony of that contact felt like an infection had entered and spread through every vein of my body, turning my blood black and razor sharp as it rushed to the touched area. My sight went blank despite the contradictory fact that my eyelids were drawn grotesquely apart to the point where for a second I was afraid my eyeballs would fall out of my head.

     "His neck," I heard a voice whisper. "I think I broke it."

     A second voice murdered something I couldn't make out. I can't move. My fingers frantically tapped the cold surface they were latched to. The way they felt like they weren't attached to my body chilled me. I can't fucking move.

     "Excuse me."

     A third voice drew my attention away from my predicament. That low, unconditionally calm voice. In opposition to my physical turmoil, I released the panic and began to work through my failing vision. Lawrence, I tried to speak. I need you to help me, Larry. The colors and shapes were still swirling but I became certain that he was next to me, looking over me. I didn't need to be able to read his face to know that he was going to make me feel better. He's a surgeon, I remembered. Of course he could help me. I focused on listening.

     "He needs to go to a hospital," I heard him say. "We don't have the equipment to diagnose him. Grab two towels, one of you."

     I travailed in further agony when my head and neck were lifted and propped up by the two towels, setting my injury straight. It took effort to drag myself back out of the state of horror my body was in, leaving me to crawl on the wall between consciousness and sanity. The voices, his voice, was around me but my brain refused to tell me what they were saying. Eventually, I gave in and fell into blackness.

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