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Everywhere ached, felt wrong.
The dark smelled clean, chemically sterile.
The was air chilled, there were sounds.
Echoes, tittering, chattering, voices.
A dull glow punctured the blackness.
There was a light past the void, was there a way out? Was there a way to escape the engulfing hell of emptiness?
No feelings besides the ache, the pounding, her person or being non-existent in the space. But that glow, that light was starting to shove its way through, brighter and more piercing. The light started to burn; it was too much. There was no way to call out. She was stuck, stuck, stuck in bright helpless pain.
“Oh. My. God.”
Thuds, thumps heavy and quick approached. There was a shadow dimming the all-consuming light, “Oh my God, turn those lights off and get me Chelsea Turner.”
The bright world stung until it didn’t.
Shapes, images, pictures focused and took root.
“Wakey, wakey, baby.” The shadow spoke in a lilting voice full of sugar. Suddenly a warmth outside the fog, a solid embrace around a limb… her limb.
“My name is Betsy, baby. I’m gonna take care of you.” The shadow hummed sweetly.
She willed her world to become clearer, fighting against the pain and forcing the world to intensify and centralize. A beautiful round woman with plump cheeks, dark skin, and large eyes looked down on her. The woman, Betsy, pursed her mauve colored lips as she held to that limb, her wrist, placing two fingers on the inside, “Good morning, Maybelle, or should I say good middle of the night.”
Huh?
There was a noise across from her making her jerk and reminding her that every minuscule part of her ached. Another woman strode up to her with tears streaming down her face. The woman had shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair and a tanned complexion with a genuine, white smile that made her look like an angel, breath-taking. The new woman dropped into a chair next to her other side, opposite of Betsy. Both of the women were pretty, but neither looked like the other. The only similarities they had were in the clothes they wore. Both women wore the same color of comfortable seeming light blue shirt and pants with a pair of sneakers.
“Maybelle, my name is Chelsea Turner, I am Trey’s mom.” The woman, Chelsea, waited like she was supposed to know what any of that meant.
She squirmed with confusion, she was so lost, unsure of who the hell these women were and who the hell Trey was or better yet, what the hell was a Maybelle?
Chelsea’s misty eyes turned to Betsy with concern.
“Has she spoken yet, Bets?”
The thicker woman shook her head and pursed her lips again, “I don’t think the poor baby has gotten a chance to collect herself.”
The angelic woman, Chelsea, reached for her, trying to hold to her hand but she pulled away.
What was going on?
Who were they?
Where was she?
Ohgod, her head hurt.
She grimaced and put a hand to her head. She was finally aware of everything, her body, her limbs, she could feel it all and it all throbbed with a dull hurt. Chelsea adjusted on the chair next to her briefly dragging her attention away from the pain.
“Sweetheart, can you tell me your name?”
She thought for a moment, her mind putty with no solid foundation for her to stand on. She tried to reply but her dry mouth felt full of cotton.
Name. Name. Name.
