Page 2 of Mr. Wilde

The room hums under fluorescent lighting and machines that whir and click. And there’s a strange, automated breathing that doesn’t match my own. A faint rhythmic whoosh near my head. Is that oxygen? Forcing my mind to concentrate, I realize that something is touching my face. A mask or some sort of tube.

Panic spikes again. I try to lift my hand. The action causes instant agony. It’s like fire under my skin, as if my muscles are tearing instead of moving. My fingers twitch uselessly, numb and heavy at the same time.

I feel restraints. Not like handcuffs exactly, but the gentle resistance of blankets tucked too tightly, of wires taped to my skin, and my own body refusing to cooperate.

I’m trapped.

The thought lands with terrifying clarity. Where am I?

My mouth feels dry, like I’ve eaten a bowl of sand. I try to speak. Yet nothing comes out.

Not even a whisper. Hot tears leak from the corners of my eyes instead, sliding back into my hair. I can’t wipe them away. I can’t really feel my face, only a distant pressure and the faint drag of moisture against my skin.

Suddenly, something brushes my fingers. A hand? Am I imagining this, or is this real this time? No. It’s warm, solid. Human.

My heart stutters again, the telemetry monitor echoing it with frantic little chirps. The hand tightens slightly, like whoever is there knows I’m scared.

“You’re safe,” the voice says. At least I think it says something like that. The words blur, losing their edges before they reach me. I only catch fragments from above me. Words like: safe, rest, wake up soon. Merely soft syllables drifting past like leaves on water.

I have no idea who this is, but cling to the pressure of the hand anyway. It feels as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the world.

I try to remember. I was… somewhere. I mean, I had a life before this moment. A job, a home, a phone… a name.

My name.

It hovers just out of reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue. The harder I strain for it, the worse the pain becomes, a crushing, unrelenting pressure inside my skull, like my head is being cracked open from the inside.

Then the world seems to darken at the edges.

No, no, no! I don’t want to go back under. I don’t want the emptiness again. I fight it, clinging to the beeping, the hand, the smell of antiseptic and plastic and something faintly floral. Hand lotion, maybe? The hand holding me smells like flowers.

Is that important?

But my body is sinking anyway. The voice fades. The beeping slows. And darkness folds over me like a tide pulling me under.

The next time I surface, it’s to pain. Pure, blinding pain.

Every nerve feels raw, exposed. My chest burns. My throat stings. My limbs feel bruised and swollen. There’s a dull pounding in my skull that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

I’m floating between awake and gone, trapped in the in-between where nothing makes sense and everything hurts.

Where am I?

The question loops endlessly. What happened? Yet no answer comes. Only the machines and that distinctive smell. That, and the weight of my own body, unfamiliar and fragile, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

I try to open my eyes again. This time, they flutter. The light is still too bright, but I catch vague images. A white ceiling, blurry shadows, movement near the edge of my vision. Someone is there. More than one person, I think. Their indistinct voices overlap. It’s a low murmur I can’t untangle.

“She’s stable…”

“She’s lucky…”

“… severe…”