When I wake up, the nurse guy is gone. I vaguely remember swearing at him a lot and feel a little bit bad. Just a little.
I shiver under the covers, the morphine wearing off. The pain that pulses through every part of my body is cold, relentless and fucking unbearable. I feel the sheets twist around my bare legs as I writhe in the darkness that smothers me, my muscles spasming uncontrollably. I can't tell where the night's darkness ends and the darkness in my mind begins.
Soon it doesn't matter, because I pass out and the next thing I know is it's mid morning and I ache all over. I think even my hair hurts, if that's even possible.
Guy nurse comes back in and checks up on me. He tells me my heart stopped in the night and they resuscitated me or something. I should really care about something like that, shouldn't I? I don't. All I know is I'm in pain and that morphine ain't working. I ask him why. He tells me that there're police waiting to question me and they need me sober so I remember.
I swear at him and tell him to give me the drugs.
He asks me if I have a heroin addiction and bluntly refuses, even when I tell him he's an idiot to even consider asking that.
"Fine. Don't give me the fucking drugs. Get me something to eat instead." He just looks at me like I'm a nutter and shakes his head. And leaves. Oh, and shows said police in. They're women, but one of them is all stern and doesn't look like she would appreciate me staring at her, and the other one is kinda old. Ugh. I might just give up. The stern one stands near the door and the other pulls up a chair beside me.
Instead, I find myself getting irritated at the bleeping of the heart monitor. I hadn't noticed it before, but now I can and it's really, really annoying. I want it to shut up.
"Can you make it shut up?" I find myself asking the police women. They glance at each other, confused. "The bleeping. It's gonna do my head in." It really is. It's like blunt knives scraping around inside my head, scraping against my skull. I try to turn to look at it and see if I can find a way to turn it off, but the movement only pulls at something in my arm, wedged in my vein. The tug... urgh. I'm not a fan of that feeling, put it that way.
"What's your name?" the woman next to me asks, a clipboard on her lap, a pen in her hand. I glare at the pen as she holds it just above the paper.
"Alex." I mutter sullenly. I'm not gonna get that morphine, am I?
"Right Alex, I'm just going to ask you a few questions about your attack and the person or people who did it," she says, a hint of hesitation in her voice as she cops the look on my face. Yeah that's right. You sit there with a fucking clipboard and a pen asking me all these questions and force me back into the second worst night of my entire life. You bitch. "Were you in the abandoned flat, 6A before the attackers arrived? Or were the attackers already there?" The memory washes over me and I feel a lot like it could drown me at any moment. Thanks, police woman. Thanks a lot.