But before I can, the click of a lock draws my attention to the door.
I've never heard of a hospital locking its patients in their rooms before. And I've spent enough time in hospitals to know if that was protocol.
When a handful of armed men skulk in the door, followed closely by a male nurse, my suspicion grows.
My eyes narrow of their own accord, watching anxiously as four guards fan out, keeping a careful eye on me with one hand on their firearms in a practiced maneuver.
Thankfully, the nurse seems less concerned with them and more concerned with me. "You called, Mr. Fomori?"
I try to clear my throat against the shards of glass that must be inside it. "I assumed someone would want to know I'm awake."
He nods, impassive. "Do you need some water?"
"Please."
He vanishes, but the guards don't, watching me with the interest of a bunch of zookeepers tracking an escaped predator.
I can't even look at them, feeling surrounded and violated, not to mention completely confused. What the fuck happened? Why am I being treated like a criminal?
I had to have attacked someone while I was out of it. It's not unheard of, I guess. And if they're worried about the medical staff, who am I to argue?
When the nurse returns, he uses my remote to lift me into a seated position, the overwhelming pain making me groan as the pressure in my head changes. Throbbing ebbs and flows behind my eyes as the nurse holds the cup up to my lips, only giving me a small sip before he pulls it away.
But I'mdyingof thirst. That one little bit didn't help at all.
A placating smile pulls at his lips, "I know. But you've had a GI tube for months, you need to take it slow."
I hum in acknowledgment, "That must be why my throat feels like I've swallowed shards of glass."
"That won't last long," he assures me. "Maybe a day or two. Assuming you stay awake that long."
"Why wouldn't I?" I ask him.
The nurse shrugs, and I squint, searching for an ID tag. Continuing to just refer to him asthe nursein my head seems ridiculous. "The longer someone is in a coma, the more likely they won't recover from it."
That's not promising.
"How long have I been out?" He said months, but not how many.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he glances at the guards around him before flipping through the chart hanging there. "Looks like you were admitted on September 24th. So just over three months. The doctor will be in shortly."
"Uhhh, thank you."Three months?
I can't shake the strange suspicion creeping up my spine. No ID tag, and he didn't tell me the doctor's name.
The nurse and three of my armed entourage leave my room, their boots drowning out the sounds of my heart rate monitor. But one of them stays behind, standing tall and stoic in the corner of my room, never taking his eyes off of me.
Three months.
I've been in a fucking coma for three months.
And before that, enough time is missing that I got a tattoo.
I examine it again, the black-and-gray scaled creatures spanning the entire back of my hand, up every finger, coalescing in the middle into a monstrous head with razor-sharp fangs, the edges of the art bathed in black smoke, drowning in it.
Every single scale of the snake's heads are crisp and bold. Every white spot is bright enough to draw the eye and give it dimension. But how could I get a fucking tattoo I don't even remember thinking of?
"Happy New Year, Mr. Fomori," the doctor from before greets me as he enters the room. "How are you feeling?"
