The hollow sound of my breathing stirred me from deep sleep. The alarming sound of the heart monitor rang in my ears and sparked thoughts: I am alive. The sweet sound of my heart beating relaxed me. It was steady and constant. My dazed gaze was glued to the ceiling.
I raised my hand to place it upon my breast to feel my heartbeat, but midway my arm jerked to a stop. Immense pain radiated from my wrist. The putrid smell of blood wafted towards my nose making me hurl. Flabbergasted, I looked at my hands. A sullen feeling consumed me; I had deduced that I was shackled to the hospital bead. That was not a good sign.
Due to the extent of the wounds wrapped around my wrist, I concluded that I must have been yanking the cuffs for quite some time while I had slept. The shackles dug into my skin, burning my raw wounds. Blood dribbled from them and crawled down my arms.
I noticed the metal object was gone. Eagerly, I fumbled around to get the neck opening of my gown high enough to peer through it comfortably. Where the metal chunk was previously lodged, there was now a line of stitches.
Voices could be heard from down the hall, so I hastily rested my head and closed my eyes to appear as if I was still asleep. The patter of footsteps lead into the room. “She’s still unconscious. I just cleaned her wounds not long ago and the sheets are already drenched in blood,” a woman grumbled, “give me a second. I’m going to clean that up.”
“Fine with me,” a man replied, sighing.
I could faintly hear someone walk around the bed to the left of me. A sharp creak broke the silence. It continued briefly before the sound of water running arose. "Mr. Charles Smith, a friend referred you to me. He told me good things about you," the woman said as another creak sounded, halting the running water, "for your sake, I hope you live up to your reputation. This woman here is the patient you'll be watching."
The woman gently rubbed my arms with the damp cloth before tending to the wounds on my wrists. She rinsed the cloth out and proceeded to clean the wounds. A stinging sensation throbbed in my wrists as she poured a solution onto them and wiped them. She towel dried my arm and dabbed the towel on my wrists.
“Why would a patient of yours need a security guard?” Charles asked.
“When we ran her insurance, her file raised red flags. We contacted the authorities to inform them and they requested that we detain her and hold her until they come to pick her up. So until then, you are to make sure she doesn't escape, she must be a dangerous individual if she’s flagged by the F.B.I.” the woman responded lifting my gown up.
Her fingers brushed the stitches. “Amazing, she’s healed at a fast rate. It’s time to take them out.”
Subtle clanking sounded from the tray in the corner of the room. “Hmm, here they are. We need more scissors,” she chuckled.
“What, the hospital doesn’t provide enough equipment?” the security guard inquired in astonishment.
“Of course not, we provide most of the surgical tools ourselves.”
Again, she raised my gown. The scissors were cold to the touch. I barely managed to stop myself from twitching. It stung a bit as she tugged one of the stitches up so she could get the point of the scissors under to cut the stitch. When she pulled it out, the sensation was quite weird. This continued one by one until she had finished removing them. “All done,” she crooned, tucking me in.
The room quieted down and the padding of foot steps made their way out of the room, fading into the distance. I opened my eyes ever so slightly to see if they had indeed left. They were in fact gone, so I began to calculate a way out; I needed to figure out why I was wanted by the F.B.I., but first, I had to escape. With all my strength, I clasp my hands together and pulled them away from the side rails in an attempt to break the shackles. Then resorted to freaking out and jerking them violently. I moved my legs, but they too were shackled to the bed as well. All this movement aggravated the gashes causing waves of excruciating pain up and down my limbs, so I gave up.
