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Mia
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
The incessant noise rings in my head.
“Hello?” I try to speak, but the word barely forms on my lips. It’s dark here. Everything is dark and dismal. Pain radiates through me like wildfire.
Like I’monfire.
Oh God, am I burning?
What happened?
I try to recover the memories, to dig them up from the dark recesses of my mind. But it’s futile. I’m trapped in a black abyss, unable to talk or move.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
It grows louder, making me wince.
What is it?
Where am I?
What the hell is going on?
Panic begins to well inside me. I can’t see. When I try to peel my eyes open, it hurts.
The light hurts.
“W-where am—" My throat is dry and sore. I feel parched. My lips are cracked.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
God, I wish somebody would switch off whatever is making that awful sound.
My fingers flex, curling into stiff… bedsheets?
“Mia?” a voice says from somewhere beside me. But it sounds faint, flickering on the edge of my consciousness. “Come back to me, Mia.”
I cling to the agony in his voice, the sheer desperation, trying to use it as an anchor. But I start slipping again, falling straight into the fingers of fear. They wrap around me, pulling me down.
Down… down…down.
Until the bleeping grows quiet and his voice disappears.
And once again, I am alone.
* * *
The next time I wake, there’s something different about it. The bleeping still rings in my ears, but when I peel my eyes open, everything shimmers into focus. It’s like looking at the world through water, but I can see.
I can see.
Relief slams into me as I try to survey my surroundings. It’s a modest room with a big window. There’s a small couch against it in the corner. A television mounted to the wall. One of those clinical trash cans. A trolley table. And the bed I’m currently laying on.
The hospital.
