I opened my eyes feeling calm and serene. There was a strange silence. Having been without my attention, my narrator tried frantically to reinitiate contact. My eyes were groggy; I wanted desperately to wipe away the residue that had accumulated during my artificial slumber. Why can’t you raise your arms?
I casually scanned the room, looking for visual cues that might clue me in to exactly what happened. My mind was blank. I could make no sense of the restraints that had been used to tether my arms to the hospital bed, nor the wounds that covered my body. I awkwardly climbed back within my skull to converse with my narrator.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
“I have no idea," my narrator admitted.
“You know. You have to know. That’s what you’re here for—to know.”
“Look, I’m just as in the dark as you are. If you want to get out of this, we have to work together.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“You’re the one talking to yourself.”
He had a point. Then again, technically, he didn't exist.
A nurse walked into the room. I must have done something crazy because she sure kept her distance. Why the hell is she afraid of you? Does she not see the restraints?
Cautiously, she eased closer toward me, eyeing my bedpan. Judging by her reaction, it must have been at least half full. She turned around and left the room.
She made a hasty return with a burlesque male nurse who touched his face habitually, stroking an imaginary goatee. You could take him, if you had your arms. He bent over and handed her the bedpan, then tested the integrity of my restraints, leaving no slack whatsoever.
“A little tight, don’t you think?” I offered.
“I’m sorry. Let me ease that up for you.” I have no problem admitting I screamed like a schoolgirl when this glum bastard actually tightened my restraints.
“Okay, someone is going to have to explain something to me. What exactly did I do to deserve this hospitality?”
“You don’t remember?" He smiled at the female nurse, shaking his head. "He doesn't remember." He actually said this. Right in front of me he said this. As if I wasn't there to hear him, he said this. "There was an incident."
“Was I attacked? Is that why I'm covered in bruises?” My steady gaze was incredulous. “I was attacked! I’m a victim! I’m no criminal! Why am I in restraints!?”
"Perhaps it would be best if I answered that question," said someone who looked like he'd just stepped out of the movie Men in Black.