The Lamp

The Truth

Blinding light.

It was the first thing Mike registered, piercing through the darkness like a knife, sharp and relentless. He winced, trying to escape it, but it followed, searing into his closed eyelids. His head pounded with each pulse, a steady rhythm of pain reverberating through his skull. Groaning, he tried to move, but his body felt too heavy, too stiff, like it had been weighed down by something intangible. His mouth was dry, and every limb felt disconnected, as if they belonged to someone else.

Slowly, agonizingly, he forced his eyes open.

The light was everywhere, cold and sterile. It came from a single bulb above him, casting an unforgiving glow over the room. His vision swam, the world around him blurring as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. White walls. Bare. Empty. He could hear the faint hum of machinery, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor, and the soft whoosh of a ventilator.

A hospital.

What the fuck happened?

He swallowed, his throat dry and raw. Shifting slightly, he felt the tug of an IV in his arm and the stiffness of the sheets beneath him. His muscles screamed in protest, every movement sending waves of dull, throbbing pain through his body.

The last thing I remember...

It hit him like a freight train: the drive. The lamp. The man in the passenger seat, staring at him with those cold, dead eyes. The voice telling him to wake up. And then—nothing. Just blackness.

Was it real?

His heart rate spiked, the steady beep of the monitor quickening as panic set in. He scanned the room, desperate for a sign, for someone—anyone—to tell him what was happening.

"Emily?" His voice cracked, barely a whisper. "Emily, where are you?"

Silence.

He tried again, louder this time, his voice shaking with fear. "Emily! The kids!"

Nothing.

Struggling against the weight of his body, Mike forced himself upright, wincing at the pain that tore through his side. His eyes darted around the room, searching for her. For them. For any sign that they were here.

"Emily!" he shouted, desperation creeping into his voice. "Where the fuck are you?!"

The door creaked open, and a man in a white coat stepped into the room. A doctor. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with graying hair and a kind, calm expression, the kind that doctors perfected when delivering bad news.

"Mr. Harper," the doctor said gently, approaching the bed. "Please, try to relax. You've been through quite an ordeal."

Mike's heart was still hammering in his chest. He barely registered the doctor's words, his mind fixated on one thing. "Where's Emily?" he demanded, his voice thick with panic. "Where are my kids?"

The doctor hesitated. His eyes flickered with something—sympathy, maybe, or pity. Mike hated it. "Mr. Harper," he began, his tone careful, measured, "you've been in a coma for three days. You were in a car accident."

Mike blinked, the words barely making sense. "Accident? But... I was with Emily. We—" His voice faltered. "We were together. I have children. What are you talking about?"

The doctor pulled up a chair, his movements deliberate, as if giving Mike time to adjust to his presence. He sat down beside the bed, his expression softening, a mix of professional detachment and genuine concern. For a long moment, he didn't speak, simply observing Mike's panic-stricken face, the confusion and desperation etched in his features. The steady beeping of the heart monitor filled the silence, a rhythmic reminder of the fragile state Mike had just emerged from.