Malice Writing Workshop

Prompt Two

The last thing I remember was staring at the barrel of a gun, all I could hear were screams, loud and ear piercing I wanted them to stop, it started to hurt my brain, my throat, it became raspy and swore. What, no. It was me, I was screaming. How could I have not realised? Wait, what is going on? My eyes sprung open, I skirted promptly across the flat bed and pushed myself hard up against the curved wall. I scanned the room, tried to piece the puzzle together. The room was flooded with yellow light, lit by long tubular fluorescent lights.

The room had a clinical feel, a room unlived, and yet somehow felt warm, inviting. Slowly I moved forward and dangled my legs over the edge. I pushed myself forward and lowered myself towards the ground. My legs were unstable, felt like jelly and I was forced to tightly grip the edge of the bed to stop myself from falling forward. My knuckles shone white, my breath quickened and my muscles shortly became lethargic. Such a small motion and yet it took all my strength away.

Lying back down for the moment was a safe option, I rolled back and laid on the bed. Tried to understand, tried to remember. Bullet, gun, blood. But not my own, whos? The more I tried to think about it the more my brain hurt, the more confused I became, why don't I remember? I didn't even know my own name.

A glass pane shifted and a well-dressed woman entered the room, "O good, you're awake." her steps were structured, her movements flawless. Clearly, she was a person who took pride in their appearance.

"How are you feeling?" Better if only I knew what was going on. It didn't feel right to verbalise my thought with her and rather than respond I observed her crisp white shirt crinkle as she lowered onto a rolling stool of which had been dragged out from beneath the bed. What a shame to have tarnished her flawless attire, it just didn't seem right.

"Can you sit up for me?" Still I didn't answer, I shifted and rolled up, the only indication I gave that I was listening. First, she examined my eyes, shining a small cylinder light towards them and then to the side, observing how my eyes reacted. What was she looking for? She made me cough, listened to my heart and felt it necessary to touch me at which point I flinched. She said that it was okay that all she wanted to do was check if I had healed well. From what? What happened? What was I recovering from?

Apparently, I was recovering well and soon I would be able to commence my physical therapy. Soon she explained, in a few months, I would be ready to join the crew. Crew? What crew? So many questions and yet I did not feel safe enough to ask.

The lady stood, placed the chair back under the bed and in only a few long strides reached the door, pivoted and walked away. It was at that moment that I noticed the red high heels attached to her toned legs and thought it a strange addition to her outfit. The glass panel closed and ones again I was alone with only my thoughts to entertain me.

This is how it went for the next week or so, although I can't entirely be sure. There was nothing to indicate a progression in time other than the assumption I made that the nurse, Julia, checked up on me once a day.

The only thing that really changed in this time was the fact my mobility progressed, each day I moved a little further. At first, starting with moving down from the bed and back up. Progressively my legs felt less like jelly and eventually I moved a little further. First skirting the walls, using them to support my heavy body. It felt as though I'd never walked before, I could barely hold myself up. I felt weak. Everything ached, the process was agonising, every step took way to long. It was frustrating; I even took my anger out on the wall, which only hurt me. This only made the nurse concerned, she furrowed her brows at me and I pulled my sleeves down to conceal the damage. My legs were so heavy, at first, I made it to the corner of the wall and back again before I needed to rest. This was the case for at least three nurse visits.