Of The Wolves And The Orphans

Cornered

 In the morning, my senses wake me up rather than my inner alarm clock. I feel my eyelids flutter open and I stare lazily, blinking at the ceiling for a moment. That was the best night of sleep I've had in quite a while. Of course, living with one eye over your shoulder doesn't give you much time to rest and I wasn't exactly on vacation in the ICU.

A sound to my right makes me jump sky high. I jerk upright, nearly crashing out of bed, only to fall back into the sheets with a groan of pain. The nurse who was tidying things up around my room is frozen, obviously just as scared of my reaction as I was of her.

"I'm sorry miss!" the nurse exclaims, finally jumping out of her terror stricken trance. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was just cleaning up around here. You're not to move for a while, doctor's orders. I'll go get your breakfast," the nurse hustles out, leaving me in the God forsaken hospital room.

I sit up slowly and gingerly, taking an overall assessment of my condition. My leg still throbs, my ribs and abdomen feel like they are on fire, my head feels like all the freakin' tinkering Christmas elves decided to take up residence in it, all the cuts and bruises (from glass, concrete, so on and so forth) are scabbed over now, and my nose is just a slight throb, but nothing more.

I stretch my arms up, yawning lazily and arching my back, hearing the satisfactory cracks and crunches as I work out all my kinks.

I feel antsy. I need to move. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, swaying them back and forth impatiently. I contemplate getting up, but decide against it since I'm not completely sure my legs would agree to hold my weight.

The nurse strolls back in, balancing a tray with the rations S.H.I.E.L.D. uses. I can't help but wrinkle my nose in disgust. It is a soppy, white, wet mush that has a resemblance to watery oatmeal. I don't even want to know what's inside of it, but my guess is their ultimate combo of minerals, carbs, and proteins needed for the patient. The nurse slides the tray onto my bedside table and is heading out the door when I stop her.

"Excuse me! I was wondering. Would you be able to find my old clothes for me? I don't feel very... comfortable in this hospital gown," I ask her in a tone that sounds more like I'm ordering her than asking.

"I'm sorry, but I must insist that you remain in your current attire for a while longer," she responded like she was talking to a five-year-old. I settle myself down for a long argument.

An hour later, I'm sitting on my bed once again, but this time in comfortable cargo pants and a singlet they were able to dig up for me since they had disposed of my torn up T-shirt. I was relieved to find they had kept my army jacket. It is for sentimental reasons now only, but it used to hold all my tools for thieving. Lock picks, small knives (that I never used to kill anyone with, only to jimmy locks), code crackers, bugs, spy cameras, and hacking devices were all stowed away in the pockets and strips inside of the jacket.

I sit, fiddling with my thumbs and having absolutely nothing to do. I sigh and shift, trying to find some position on this damn hospital bed that is comfortable, but I know it is an itch I can't scratch. I shift uncomfortably again, and then...I just can't take this anymore

I jerk up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to stand up, but right as I do this, the door to my hospital room slides open. I immediately raise my defenses, having been startled. Did they know I was going to move?

Don't be ridiculous Keira. Keep it together, I caution mentally as I eye the person who steps through the door.

He has smoothed and gelled black hair that looks styled to perfection, showing obvious pride in his work and professionalism he brings to the office. His white lab coat labels him as a doctor and his name tag reads Richer Harris, psychiatrist.