My limp body bounces on the gravel.
Everything goes light blue and then the light flares so bright that I can’t see anything but white.
Sterile
(They don't know I'm awake.)
They don’t know I’m awake.
Consciousness returns to me when I’m in the ambulance. At least that’s where I assume that I am. My eyes are nearly closed, so everything is out of focus. I can see movement. That’s about it.
I hear voices and I catch a word here and there. Most of it is just gibberish to me.
One of them is pushing up my sleeve.
I’m incapable of resistance. My senses work, but I can’t seem to control my body.
If I could only get my eyes open, I’m sure I could communicate with them. They would see my stare and they would understand.
The world shifts beneath me and I come to know that we’re moving. This is my world now. I’m trapped in this jostling, accelerating body, unable to make contact. It’s somewhat like the pantry. At least they’re not tapping.
Cool sanity flows back into me.
I’m able to blink.
The guy hovering over me looks familiar. Maybe we was one of the guys who came for Mr. Engel?
He looks kind.
I was starting to worry that it wasn’t an ambulance at all. I was starting to think that maybe I was inside of a refrigerator. Now that I can see his face, my panic subsides. I’m able to turn my head and I almost manage to get my mouth to form a word.
“Easy,” he says, like he’s trying to calm a rearing horse. “We’ll get you there. Take it easy.”
I think I’m strapped down because my arm meets resistance when I try to lift it.
“Easy.”
When they roll me from the back of the ambulance, we pass through a shaft of sun. It burns my skin. At that moment, I make a wish—I never want to be in the sun’s bright glare ever again. I’ll do anything if that wish is granted.
They roll me into the air conditioned building and I nearly break into tears. It’s so perfect in here.
I can relax for the first time in forever.
(The pain is a distant concern.)
The pain is a distant concern.
It must be the drugs. My body is alive with throbs and aches, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m perfectly content to stay perfectly still and listen to the sound of my own breath moving in and out of my lungs. The air is tranquil surf, rolling in and then disappearing into the sand.
My eyes shift, taking in the details of the room. The television is off. The lights in the ceiling are mostly extinguished. The blinds are halfway drawn. Through the gaps, I see clouds painted pink at the edges.
Everything is perfectly perfect.
Staring at the doorway, I see several people pass by before one glances over at me.
She stops in her tracks, regards me for a second, and then goes on her way.
I’m not surprised when she returns a few minutes later and asks me, “How are we feeling?”
It seems rude to answer for both of us, so I just smile at the question.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I don’t feel qualified to supply an answer to that. I give her another smile and I try to nod.
We go through this process for another few cycles before she gives up. I can’t seem to communicate, but I’m not annoyed at all.
It must be the drugs.
It was wonderful when she was talking to me and it’s still wonderful when she’s gone.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air, in and out, becomes the crashing surf and it’s lovely to listen to.
(I'm still in a fog.)
I’m still in a fog.
I’ve grown accustomed to the hospital schedule, but they’ve told me that it’s time for me to go home. My body will recover more quickly if I don’t spend too much time in a hospital bed.
“Aren’t you excited to get back to normal life?” one person asks me.
I don’t have an answer.
Honestly, I gave up on the idea of normal life a while ago. When I got to the point where I could form basic sentences, I started asking to talk with the police. They were eager to talk with me as well. I guess the state of my house left them with open questions.
An officer with a badge clipped to her belt came in and leaned very close to me to hear what I had to say. I told her about the knock on the door. I told her about my escape attempt, the fall, and then the truck. She blinked rapidly when I talked about the fuel line of the truck being cut and how I was forced to blow it up so I would have enough cover to get back to the pantry.
After that, I glossed over all the details until my walk back to humanity.
I included how I broke into Mr. Engel’s house to try to use the phone. She nodded at that detail.
“Who do you think it was? Who tried to attack you at your house?”
“I don’t have any idea. Did you find any evidence of them?”
Her eyes went up and around, bouncing from one corner of the room to the next until they landed back on me.
They all think I’m crazy.
That’s the main reason I’m so surprised that they’re so eager to send me home.
Once I’ve healed a bit more, they tell me that my regular doctor will help me make an appointment to be fitted with a prosthetic. For the staff in the hospital, my missing left hand is completely normal. They’ve only ever known me as the guy with the bandaged stump.
If I wasn’t so drugged, I think that I would be
