I can almost feel the doctor roll his eyes. If I were capable, I'd be doing the same.
"Regardless, I'm trying to treat a patient," the doctor scolds himwith all the energy of a man who's had this conversation countless times before. "Be silent or be gone."
Silence might be too much to ask for whoever this man is, but the doctor settles for his incoherent grumbling as he turns his full attention back to me.
"I don't want you to try to speak, Mr. Fomori," he tells me. "Only blink to communicate. Once for yes, two for no. Can you do that for me?"
I blink once, hoping the fog surrounding me clears soon.
"Perfect," the figure nods once. "Are you in pain?"
Another single blink.
He gestures to someone on the other side of the room. "Let's get him started on a round of morphine."
I frantically blink twice.
"No?" The doctor's confused voice quietly slips out.
"No," the word is gargled and throaty, but it's an insistence. "Allergy."
The cop laughs outright from the corner. "Well, ain't that a bitch. A drug smuggler that's allergic to drugs."
The pain and brain fog fight against me, trying to drag me back under. I tryso hardto understand the officer's words and hatred of me, but my body's exhaustion is too profound, too overwhelming, and before I know it, I'm pulled under once again, hoping they listen and don't put anything in my body to make me worse.
For god knows how long, I float in and out of consciousness, half hearing the world moving around me. The beep following my heart is the only constant, the only thing I have to cling to while my mind slowly comes into focus.
When I can fully open my eyes without effort, the world around me is dark and nearly silent.
The blurry vision finally clears, the cold, white hospital coming into crystal clear focus.
And I'm alone.
No doctor.
No cop.
Just me and a fucking machine that won't shut up.
Oh, and a million wires, some stuck to my head, another hooked directly into the inner crook of my elbow.
Everything still hurts, but at least without the added torture of being pumped full of morphine.
With aching, trembling fingers and an even weaker arm, I search for a button to call for someone.
But where my hand should be, I see a stranger's fingers, adorned with gray and black swirls.
Panic starts to settle in.
Did I lose my hand, and they had to give me someone else's?
Do they do arm transplants? No. That’s crazy. What the hell is wrong with me?
Jesus Christ, I must still be half unconscious.
Even though the hand is unfamiliar, it works, so I find the plastic remote and press the big red call button, closing my eyes and resting against the thin pillow behind me.
After a few minutes of silence, I consider pushing it again.
