Looking Past Death

Chapter Two

            Chapter Two

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2 years later

I sit in my bed, all alone. It's two in the morning, but I'm not tired. They diagnosed me a month after I arrived. Everyone else seems to know what I have, except me.

I get locked up in this room for most of my day. They only let me out for my therapy session. I have a new doctor. My old one was arrested for beating the patients. But the new one is not any better.

The new doctor is coming to get me, I can here her footsteps coming down the hall. I start to tremble, imagining what she'll do to me today.

Her name tag reads Dr. Anderson. "Get up!" She shouts, pushing the wheel chair further into the room. But I can't stand. I haven't stood in a year. I refuse to.

When I don't follow her order she storms over to me and grabs me hair, yanking me up. I bit my lip, knowing that she would punish me if I made a sound.

She drags me over to the wheel chair and sits me in it. She presses my wrists down onto the built in straps. She clamps them down tightly on my wrists, just hard enough to cause pain, but not enough to cut off all  

circulation.

Once I'm strapped in she begins to move me down the hall. I see what I normally do when I make this daily trip. The dead, looking sadly down at those being abused. Cries, grunts, and screams echo down the halls.

Many of the dead are bloody, battered, obviously murdered. And that's what scares me the most. That I could be one of them, dead, walking amont the living.

A few days later I'm informed that they will be moving me to a new room, one that is conjoined to Dr. Anderson's. I'm scared, no terrified that she will kill me. All the other patients that got a conjoined room to hers ended up dead. What makes me any different the them?

Some nurses come in to start moving some of my hospital clothes, while others move me to a wheel chair and strap me down.

As soon as I see the room terror fills me. The bed has a thousand straps to hold my down. For my head, neck, shoulders, chest, torso, upper arm, lower, arm, wrist, thigh, knee, ankle, and ones in between.

One of the nurses hands me a journal and a pencil." Keep track of everything that you see, hear, and feel." She tells me. "Yes," I mumble. Anger covers her as she pulls her hand back a Slaps me, I taste blood.

"Excuse me?" She says angrily. "Yes, ma'am." I say, correcting myself.

She spins around on her heel and storms off, leaving me alone. I look down at the journal. They would give you a new one every time you moved rooms, to see if your location helped your condition. But I don't have a condition, I only have reality.

I see the man standing in the corner. He wont tell me his name, he told ne to give him one, so I named him Ian. Ian has been there ever since I came here, I think that he might have died here, he would talk to me, keep me company. I can't see any visibal indication of how he died. So I decide that now would be a good time to ask.

"How did you die?" I ask. He looked irritated with me, but answers.

"Let's just say that that's a story for another time." He replies. He walks over to the door."I have to go. Perhaps I'll tell you how I died some other time." He fades through the door.