Flames sprint up the wall, looping over my head, they run across the ceiling, crackling and snapping like fireworks. The smoke mushrooms all around, thick and black. I can’t see a way out.
My lungs shrink as the air is sucked out of me. I can’t breathe, it’s like someone is holding a cloth over my face.
I wake up screaming, my chest heaves and I erupt into a fit of coughing. Something around my breastbone tightens, pulling me back down onto the bed.
Blinking back into the room, there’s a moment of disorientation. I’m back in hospital being treated for my injuries. Where am I? How on earth did I end up here?
Then the wall of green tiles triggers something. A piece of the puzzle dislodges and I know I’ve been here before. I’ve woken up like this, feeling confused, many, many times over.
Sweat clings to me as does the horror of what I was dreaming, although it’s just a residue now, the memory already fading; the images have become hazy and brittle and I can’t remember much other than it was ghastly. So very terrible.
I’m Florence Lewis Jones. Repeat after me, I’m Florence Lewis Jones, I live in – I stop, drawing a blank. My eyes fill with tears. The room sways and the walls tremble.
Stop, stop. Don’t let the fear overwhelm you. Stay strong. It may seem insurmountable at the moment but you must get through it. You will.
‘Oh God, please help me.’ I break down into sobs. I’m terrified. I don’t want to be afraid any more.
I continue to take deep breaths, inhaling the air around me, and that’s when I pick up on the scent. It smells different to the last time and the time before that, I think. Clean and crisp, the scent of sunshine and white flowers. Of fresh linen. They’ve changed my bedding?
My eyes focus, and in that moment of clarity I notice the transparent bag attached to the side of the bed, half filled with a murky yellow liquid. It takes me a second longer to make the connection, to realize it’s a catheter bag. It’s revolting, the sight of my urine turns my stomach, but I force myself to remain calm because at least they’re not making me lie in my own urine. That’s something, I suppose.
If they wanted to get rid of me, they wouldn’t be changing my sheets. They wouldn’t be feeding me liquids through these tubes. They’d let me starve to death, surely? Unless . . . My stomach hollows. Unless there’s another reason they’re keeping me alive.
Oh God, oh God.
I hear a cough and I freeze.
Someone’s in the room with me. Oh dear God, have they been here all this time? I turn my head towards the sound and I can sense a presence, watching me. The soft murmur of voices to my left. I can’t understand what they’re saying, the words are strung out, everything around me is in soft focus.
‘Let me go. Please,’ I say desperately.
They stop. I can hear them breathing. I feel their eyes running over me. My skin prickles, like insects crawling along my arms and legs.
‘Please.’ I force my voice past the knot in my throat. ‘Tell me what you want.’ My voice sounds small and pathetic, which makes me cry.
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I’ll do anything.’ I shake my head pitifully.
I hear footsteps approach and I start trembling. I know what’s coming.
Hurry, Flo. Concentrate. Before it’s too late.
I try focusing, forcing the feeling, reliving the moment I arrived here, wherever here is. I’m desperate to remember before they give me more of that stuff that makes me forget.
It was autumn. Yes, yes. Oh gosh, I can picture it, the afternoon sun, low slung and coppery over the mountains. There was far less snow than now, I can envisage the spruce green, scree running down the slopes. I remember being here, but in a different season entirely. I feel a burst of exhilaration as hope surges. But the feeling is quickly snatched away by a desperate low.
How long have I been a prisoner?
No, don’t give up, keep going. What else? Who was there?
The hazy outline of half a dozen or so faces swims into focus. There was a group of us when I arrived. Yes, and the willowy woman with the white hair, she stood in front of us, drawing us into a circle. We held hands and she promised we were loved and would be nourished and that she would heal me of my chronic pain.
I can feel the love and inclusivity, the warmth of what I thought was my surrogate family. And then two men, the strapping outdoorsy type, came towards me. Taking my bag from my hand, they led me away.
They were kind and friendly. I frown. Especially the one with the shoulder-length hair. Overly friendly, in fact. I frown again as I recall how, for a split second, I actually considered – is he flirting with me? And then pushing the absurd notion aside because there would be no possibility, of that I’m certain. No. Not the way I look. Not with my disfigurements.
It must have been a trap.