I haven't had time to do much of anything.
Every moment of consciousness is co-opted by doctors poking and prodding or cops asking me questions that don't make any sense, and hours upon hours of physical therapy.
Every inch of my body aches like I've just run a marathon when all I've done is relearn how to fucking walk more than a few steps.
I can't lift my arms over my head without them shaking from the effort.
The PT says not using my muscles for months has basically caused every bit of strength they had to dissipate. I have to retrain my body just to do the work I took for granted every day.
I'm the weakest I've ever been in my life, yet the men surrounding me at all hours watch me as if I'm the threat here. Guns not so subtly aimed in my direction fill my every waking hour, and presumably even my sleeping ones.
I can't imagine what I did to earn this kind of trepidation, and no one will tell me. Instead, armed strangers are asking me where I was on this day or that. And if I've ever bought weapons from some local artillery supplier.
When did you start your company?
Where did you recruit your employees?
Can you vouch for their whereabouts on this date?
Do you have an affinity for hunting?
I think I've repeated the phraseNot that I can rememberover a hundred times by now.
One of the officers loudly suggested to another that I'm lying about the memory loss to get out of the life sentence I'm guaranteed.
Every moment longer I'm here, pure terror creeps into my veins. I have no idea who they're talking about. But it couldn't be me, could it?
Could I have done something so terrible that I deserve to rot in prison for the rest of my life?
Nausea rears its ugly fucking head again, and I have to swallow down the sensation of my mouth watering while another man in a white coat asks me how my healing is going.
"You're the doctor," I laugh. "You tell me."
He blinks, his face completely blank, "I can't tell you how you're feeling, Mr. Fomori."
"Right," I sigh, my head sinking into the pillow beneath it. Myeyes trace the patterns across the white ceiling, finding comfort in the only peaceful thing in this room. "I feel like shit. Everything fucking hurts."
"Well, you won't take the pain medication so that makes sense." His disdain for that choice is only barely hidden underneath the doctorly professionalism. "But, the pain is a good sign in this case. If you weren't feeling anything, I'd be concerned about lifelong lack of sensation.”
"And what about lifelong lack of memories?" I scoff.
"That's not my area of expertise," he shrugs. "Icantell you that, at this point, it's unlikely that the missing time will return. But that might be for the best. The trauma of what you went through might drive you mad."
More vague fucking non-answers.
I try my luck pressing, but I know what the response will be before I even open my mouth. "What did I go through? What the hell happened to me?"
"Nothing you didn't deserve," the cop sitting in the corner mutters. "If it had been me, you'd be six feet under."
"The fuck did you just say?" I ask, an unfamiliar rage bubbling up in my chest.
The doctor whips around to the officer, "Don't."
But the officer ignores him, never taking his eyes off me. "Isaidthat if it was me, you'd be six feet under."
A wicked, loud laugh fills the room, his bravado falling as I cackle outright, "You're so fucking brave, huh? I'm strapped to a bed, you're waving around a gun and you're still so afraid of me your hand is shaking."
This guy is a fucking pussy. Hiding behind a uniform and a firearm he doesn't know how to handle. Talking to me like this only works for him right now because he believes I can't fight back.
