part0011

I woke with a fire in my lungs, gasping for air, as fear washed over me. My hands searched for my throat, clinging as I tried to soothe the burning sensation, but never feeling relief. It took me several seconds before I realized that I was alive and not in hell as I suspected.

My mind was foggy; a thick blanket of haze had settled over my mind like the beginning of an unsettling horror movie. I wasn’t sure if it was a dream. Or a nightmare.

Or if any of it was real.

I prayed it wasn’t.

The club Verdant, the men who took me, the pain—it was all coming back. Fragments of the fearful night broke through the haze; piece by piece, my memory was returned. Only then did I realize that I wasn’t in earth shattering, agonizing pain. Instead of the sharp, crippling kind of pain I had first felt, I now was met with merely a dull throb.

I scanned my body, assessing the damage. Dressed in an ugly, light blue hospital gown that smelled faintly of antiseptic and wasn’t in the least bit flattering, I was thankful, at least someone had the decency to give me some clothes.

There was an IV in my right arm, pumping a cold liquid into my veins, and my hand had been bandaged in a thick wad of gauze and tape. Only then did I remember the cut across my abdomen. Reaching with my other hand, I felt the bandage that wrapped around my stomach through the thin hospital gown, but the pain wasn’t as crippling as I thought it would be. More annoying than anything.

As I studied my surroundings, I had quickly concluded that I wasn’t in a hospital. The bed was king-sized, topped with an intricate, fluffy comforter and silk sheets.

Looking around me, I saw four light peach colored walls, white painted furniture, a large chest dresser with a baroque framed mirror and three doors—one to my right and two to my left. The furniture pieces were antique, yet elegant. Beautiful oil paintings and ornate vases with a stunning arrangement of flowers were placed perfectly throughout. The room was large and spacious, and most definitely not a hospital.

I heard a few electronic beeps at the door and then what sounded like the workings of a metal lock. The knob turned as I froze in place. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed man I had never seen before walked in. He was wearing a light grey, v-neck sweater with a small metal zipper, khaki pants, and brown leather shoes underneath a crisp, clean lab coat. Immediately, I knew he was not like the other men; he was in his late forties with light peppery-grey hair above his ears, and his skin was smoothed, not sun damaged or scarred like the Captain’s. He carried himself with a sense of pride, confidence, and civility as he made his way across the room, toward me.

“Good morning.” He smiled, “How are you feeling, Addy?” His voice was smooth and sincere. He looked at me with concern, the same way the Captain had, only he didn’t seem as worried.

Some inner part of me tried to argue, claiming that I had been the one responsible for the gash across my stomach, but even then, I wouldn’t have needed to grab a makeshift weapon to defend myself if I hadn’t been chased.

Questions continued to invade the forefront of my mind, making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

I didn’t know what to say. How did I feel? There was a dull throb in my left shoulder and arm, my ankle felt swollen, and my head suddenly felt heavy. Instinctively, I reached up to feel the small bandage, just above my temple. The skin felt bruised and tender, which made me wonder if I looked as bad as I felt.

The doctor stood next to the bed, patiently waiting for me to reply. But when I opened my mouth to respond, the words wouldn’t come out. My hand hastily moved to soothe my scratchy throat, but it was pointless; the words wouldn’t form.

The strange new man disappeared into one of the doors off to my left for a second and returned with a glass of water. He kindly held the glass to my lips as I took a few sips and waited patiently for me to regain my voice. I pushed the glass away. He took it, setting it on the tray next to the bed and asked, “Better?”

“Yes,” I said, my throat instantly felt relieved, not as raw as before. “Thank you.”

He smiled and nodded, “How are you?” He started checking the machines and inspecting the IV, all the while still paying close attention to me. He was subtle as he went about his business, but I knew he was watching me carefully, casually stealing a glance here or there.

Suddenly without much notice, the fear began to resurface tenfold. I shook my head, hoping to shake the thoughts and questions right out of my mind, but I couldn’t stop them from pushing their way to the surface. “I don’t understand; where am I?” The panic was transparent in my voice, and my eyebrows furrowed as I realized, “And how do you know my name? Who are you?”

He was quick to reply as if it was a repeated mantra of his. “Don’t worry; you’re safe here. I assure you. Our only concern now is your recovery.” Placing his hand on my shoulder, he tried to comfort me with his words, but I was not so easily placated .

Turning away from me for a moment, he asked, “Are you in pain?” He stood over me, waiting for an answer, his five-foot-ten frame left me feeling small and vulnerable.

“No, I’m not.” I lied, just as sternly as he had asked, but he could see right through me. I didn’t know where I was or who he was; how could I tell him the truth when I didn’t trust him?

He moved swiftly around the room to the large white cabinet across from me and pressed a combination into the keypad to open it. I watched as he withdrew a black folder, a single syringe, and dainty, clear glass bottle.

“What do you remember?” He asked as he made his way back around to the edge of the bed. He set the syringe and bottle down to open the folder and began jotting down notes.

Flashbacks of my attackers flooded my memory. I could feel their hands around me, hauling me away as if I was reliving the event that moment. I could almost feel the adrenaline that surged through my body when I knew they were going to take me. It wasn’t something I could easily forget.

With a shaky voice, I said, “I don’t remember much.” I lied again. I’m not even sure why I did it. It was an impulse; my gut feeling told me not to trust him.

He didn’t seem convinced, his eyes watched me closely. “You don’t remember anything? Even the littlest thing can help me to understand,” he offered.

With a sigh, I said, “I was walking down the street when a few men attacked me. They chased me for a little while until my heel gave out.” He patiently waited for me to continue. “That’s when they hauled me away. I didn’t get a good look at their faces.”

I remember them all. I couldn’t forget their faces even if I wanted to; they were forever engraved in my memory.

There was the man in the suit jacket who gave the appearance of a Good Samaritan, but we both knew he was far from it. His face was the hardest one to remember because, in that moment, I wasn’t seeing anything very clearly. But I remember his tattoo as if I was staring at it now. Against his deep bronze skin was a pronounced black crow with outstretched wings, which normally wouldn’t have stuck so heavily in my mind except for the fact that the crow was decaying; the feathers fell from its wings and blood dripped from its neck—its head, a partial skull.

Then there was the second man who jumped from the van. I remember him mostly because of the way he was covered in clouds of tobacco fumes. Even sitting here now it was as if I could smell the cigarettes filling the room with their odor, each puff of smoke slowly suffocating me.

But most of all I remember the man they called Captain . His face was hard and cold, empty, his life struggles written on his body in the numerous scars that covered his forearms.

Coming back from the depths of my mind, I noticed the doctor nodded as if he understood. He finished his notes and continued reading my chart, stealing an occasional glance toward me as he wrote.

“That was quite some fall you had. It’s a miracle you didn’t break anything.” The doctor said in astonishment. “There are a few stitches in your abdomen and a few more in your hand. You should have minimal scarring, at most, but it’s best if you don’t try to sit up too much. We don’t want you to tear open the seam. You’ll have to stay in bed for a few days, but I’ll continue to stop in every few hours to check on you.”

I heard his words clear as day, but I wasn’t registering. “I don’t understand… this isn’t exactly a hospital. Where am I?” I asked again, this time more impatiently; he was continuously avoiding my inquiries.

The mysterious doctor smiled again, evading my question. “I told you; you’re safe here,” he said as he busied himself with removing the syringe from its plastic casing and withdrawing four milligrams of what I could now see was morphine.

“Don’t!” I panicked. “Please. I don’t want it!” I couldn’t go back to feeling numb again; I just wanted answers. He continued removing the air from the syringe as if I hadn’t even said anything at all .

Just then we both looked over at the door to find someone else entering. I immediately recognized him from the night before. He was leaner than the others, not as broad in the shoulders or as muscular. He wore dorky, wide lensed glasses and his hair, although poorly attempted, was combed to one side with an uncooperative few strands that stood on end at the crown of his head. He had been the driver of the SUV the night they took me.

My body shook, and the air left my lungs; a shiver resonated deep in my body.

Simmons, I thought I heard one of the others call him. If he was here, then it was safe to assume the others were too, and my fears were now a reality.

It wasn’t a nightmare.

Suddenly, my body was alive with the need to move, the need to put as much space between them and me as possible. There were two of them, strong, capable men to my injured, weakened self. I couldn’t fight them off in my current state, which left me with the only other option.

I attempted to lunge out of the bed, to put distance between my assailants and me, but the doctor realized what I intended to do and pushed me back down onto the bed in one quick, powerful move. “Now, just hold on a second,” he said, his voice calming, yet forceful. He set the morphine filled syringe and bottle off to the side to free both hands. He gripped my shoulders, giving him more control over my body, holding me firmly against the pillows.

With a lengthy stride and somewhat awkward gait, Simmons made his way across the room to the medicine cabinet. With fear filling my eyes, I tried to keep him in my sights, but a hand pulled my chin to the side. The doctor held my gaze in place. “Firstly, I am not going to hurt you,” he said, “Secondly, despite your desire to get out of this bed, you will not move. You are in no condition to go anywhere. Am. I. Clear?” He drew out the words as if they would have any more significance, but I was only half listening to him. My mind was whirling with curiosity as I tried to see what Simmons was doing.

I needed a plan. I needed to get away. I just didn’t know how.

With a sigh, the doctor released his grip, freeing my head once more and my attention was instantly drawn back to Simmons.

“Addy—.” I heard my name but didn’t look. I was more consumed with what Simmons had in his hands. What was he doing? “Addy—.” My chin was pulled aside once again but more harshly this time so that I was looking directly into the doctor’s eyes. “Addy—I need your full undivided attention.” The doctor’s voice was clipped and authoritative.

Just then Simmons appeared on the other side of the bed with a metal tray; My heart raced when I saw a syringe and vials in my peripheral vision. I started panicking, but the doctor held his grip on my chin, forcing me to stare into his eyes. He left me oblivious to what Simmons was doing.

“Calm down,” he said softly to me. But his voice was more than just calming, it was almost threatening. Turning his attention from me to him, the doctor said, “Simmons—proceed.” I tried to free my head from his grip, to keep my arm away from Simmons, but I couldn’t see what he was doing.

I felt Simmons’s cold, clammy hands grasp my left arm as he slightly twisted it, causing some discomfort in my shoulder. He held my arm still while he tied the tourniquet above my elbow.

The inevitable was coming, and I was powerless to stop it.

I had never had much of a tolerance for needles—at least not after being poked countlessly by a fresh med student when I was younger. A learning experience is what they called it—as if that had been reassuring.

I tried resisting, but Simmons was quick and had the needle in before I could exhale. I could barely see as he slowly filled four separate vials. When he was finished, he released the tourniquet and bandaged me up quickly .

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The doctor asked, smiling warmly. He released his grip once more.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“I just want to make sure you’re on the road to recovery.” He gave me a small, reassuring smile.

Another run-around answer.

“You never told me who you are,” I said in frustration.

“My name is Mathias,” he said, “I’m the resident doctor here.”

Simmons began sealing the vials in little clear plastic bags, and when he finished, he placed the needle in a portable red contamination box. I had become so distracted with Simmons’s actions that by the time I had noticed, the doctor had already released half of the morphine into my IV.

In a last-ditch effort, I tried to yank the IV free, but it was too late. The doctor grabbed my arm firmly and slowly continued pressing the syringe. It didn’t take long before I began feeling the effects. My head grew heavy, and my body felt cold but warm at the same time. The pain slowly sank away.

When he finished, he released his grip, disposed of the syringe, returned the morphine to the cabinet and locked it with a click of a button.

The drowsiness crept up fast, and I couldn’t fight it. “Get some rest, Addy. I will answer your questions in the morning.” The doctor flipped the light switch, and I was out before I saw them leave the room.