Hello Darkness

Chapter Thirty-Five

Buzzing.

Is this what being dead feels like? I keep my eyes closed though I've been conscious for a while now. Maybe I'm not able to open them, or maybe fear is what is keeping them shut. Fear of what I may see when I open them, or fear that I'll find Alma's sad eyes full of disappointment because I've fucked up again. So, I just listen to the buzzing.

I'm certain I am dead. So certain it feels wrong that I'm alive. I felt Stevens' teeth pierce my neck—I felt the blood pour out and soak my shirt. I felt every pine needle stab my skin and every stick pull my hair as I rolled down the hill—I felt my spine shatter against that tree—but maybe it was all just another hallucination.

Needles of pain scratch my throat with every swallow. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like I've been sucking on cotton ball. How long have I been out?

I shift under the sheets, every fiber pricking at my legs. My legs—I can feel them—I can move them. My excitement quickly stifles as every inch of my body screams. Even the slightest graze of the blanket feels like it's tearing skin from bone. The pain at least tells me some of it had to be real—my hallucinations have never caused me pain before. Not like this.

I let out a whimper, expecting Alma or Breccan to shuffle in the room. But no one does. My eyelids flutter as my eyes adjust to the blinding dome lights. I cover my eyes. Everything is blinding white, sending shocks of pain through my skull.

I squint, but it only helps dull the pain a notch. White. White walls. White tiles. White sink—white sink. I swing my legs over the bed, ignoring the burn as I stand. I sway a little trying to gain my balance, the room tilting all the wrong ways. Where am I? There are no machines or tubes running to my arms like last time—no bracelet to prove who I am. Yet, I'm wearing a gown and it smells of latex and alcohol.

My throat burns at the thought of water, and I don't take another moment to contemplate. My legs shake like they're just learning to walk again, and I stumble into the sink. Using it to relieve the pressure on my legs, I spin the faucet and cup my hands eager to soothe my aching throat. A sweet aroma catches me off guard—my gaze travels over the silver door, perhaps there is a kitchen nearby. It's like midsummer honeycombs and cinnamon sticks.

My throat screams and my stomach tightens. When was the last time I'd eaten? My eyes slip back over my cupped hands now filled with a scarlet liquid. I drop it into the sink, half expecting it to turn clear, but red spiderwebs crawl across my palms, and I frantically wipe them onto my gown, leaving streaks of red hand prints. My lips part, unable to look away from my burning palms, the raw muscle exposed. I gag as the smell of rotting flesh erases any sweetness.

I scream and step back trying to run from the very things attached to my body. I rub my hands together in a failed attempt to convince myself this is a dream, but each time more skin tears, until I collapse to the floor, ready to sever my arms to stop the pain. I need help. I crawl to the door and pound my fists against it. Every collision sends red droplets staining the mirrored surface.

The grinding of metal on metal on the opposite side of the door stops me, and I manage to stand. I step back allowing the door to swing open just enough for a man in a lab coat to enter. Tall—taller than Breccan. His cognac brown eyes monitor me, like he's anticipating my movements. He doesn't flinch when he sees my wounds—he doesn't even question what's happened. Just withdraws a needle from his pocket and reaches for my arm—faster than humanly possible. I'm not able to pull away or object before he's pulling the needle from the crease of my elbow and slips back out the door.

I want to scream after him—demand to know what he's done to me or where I am. Where my family is... were they looking for me? Maybe they put me in here...