An oppressive haze in Steve’s mind kept him from waking fully. He lay on his back. His spine ached from the long slumber. He wanted to roll on his side, and curl his back to relieve the strain. Each time he tried, he couldn’t pull his left arm across his body to lift his shoulder and roll. Similarly, he couldn’t lift his left knee to roll. He felt as though his ankles were tangled in the blankets.

He drifted off to sleep.

When his mind began crossing from the wild imaginings of an uncontrolled brain an into a world of conscious thought, he tried to order the events in his mind.

He remembered crying out in emotional agony, holding onto the hood of his rental car. She lay there, her wheels splayed. The tow cable hung loosely from her front bumper, and her headlights drooped half closed, no light within them.

He wound back and recalled the urgency as she sank into the mud, crying frantically to the tow truck. The truck had spoken comforting words to assure him everything that could be done was being done, as she fed out her tow cable into the deep mud. He remembered the horror of trying to calm his rental car, urging her to lay still, as she cried frantically and sank into the mud. He could still see the mud closing around her bright headlights, as it did to so many daring explorers who found the end of their fate in the deep Amazon.

He sorrowed over his companion.

“What …,” he mumbled groggily, pulling himself out of the deep slumber.

“… the…,” he spoke as he opened his eyes, squinted against the bright, florescent, tube lights mounted to the ceiling. The memories were gone. Only the feelings of horror and despair lingered.

“… hell?” he exclaimed full-throated.

He pulled his left arm in toward himself, but it stopped in only a few inches. Something around his wrist held him fast. He pulled his right arm upward. It two was held. Trying to pull his knees inward, he found they two were secured about his ankles.

He actually was, after all, living in Stephen King novel.

“Dammit!” he yelled as he pulled violently against the restraints. He expected to hear the sounds of chains rattling, but did not.

He should lay quietly, feign sleep, and assess his situation. If he acted lethargic, perhaps he could surprise his captor.

Apparently his thoughts lagged his actions by a half-second. He was panicking.

A woman walked briskly into the room. She had long brown hair, pulled back into a pony tail. Though her movements were quick and suggested urgency, the expression she wore on her brown complexion suggested calm. Steve immediately saw the syringe in her hand. He followed her gaze to his left arm. Taped into it, a clear plastic tube with ports along it ran upward to a clear bag of intravenous fluid.

He looked back at the woman. She wore a matching set of mauve surgical scrubs. She was not, however, gowned up to start carving into his body.

He was in a hospital … or the demonic madness of a Clive Barker novel.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of her.

She paused.

“Where am I? What are you doing to me? What is going on? Why am I here?” he fired off in rapid succession.

She stopped and placed the capped syringe into the pocket of her scrubs.

“You sound like you’re feeling better, Mr. Lewis,” she said calmly to him. “Do you know where you are?”

Steve was actually calmed by her incredibly stupid question. She had not been listening to him. Her’s was a habitual response from much use. He was probably in a hospital.

Steve said nothing. He stared brutally at her as he strained against the restraints, flexing his well toned, hard-earned muscles. He waited for her mind to catch up to their dialogue.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“You seem much more coherent,” said said, apparently ignoring his questions. “I need you to remain calm, Mr. Lewis, or I will need to sedate you again.”

He saw her pause and wait, probably trying to assess him. Again? He thought. He said nothing.

“I’ll go get the doctor,” she turned and walked out.

Yeah, Steve thought to himself, this was a hospital. Only under the weight of an oppressive bureaucracy would the one person who actually knew what was going on, the nurse, be silenced. Her forced deference to the doctor reinforced the facade of their superhuman capabilities.

He waited.

He flexed both arms inward, slowly increasing his force against the restraints. Mentally, he believed he lacked the strength to overcome them, but he needed to know whether or not he could. He heard footfalls in the hallway and slowly relaxed against the restraints.

A woman walked into the room.She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties.She had black hair, cut in an A-line to the length of her chin.She looked to be of Indian descent and the hair style suggested she had long been in America.She to wore surgical scrubs, but her’s were bright yellow.Over them, however, she wore a white lab coat.

She walked to the foot of the bed, stopped, and regarded him.

He stared back at her defiantly.

“You seem to be lucid this morning,” she said, “can you tell me where you are?”

“Is this a trick question?” he replied, “I’ve been asking that very thing.”

“You’re in the neuropsychiatric ward of Mercy Hospital in Richmond. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Can you remove these restraints?”

She paused, as if thinking. He wondered if that was a rehearsed behavior to make the patient perceive a better situation than reality. He knew the answer before he’d asked.

“You ensured our orderlies earned their pay. We had to give one of them a couple of paid days off to recover,” she paused a moment, as if thinking, but his mind began reeling with questions, “The restraints will come off once we’ve determined you won’t be a danger to yourself or others.”

He laid there is silence, fighting against the wave of loss that filled him. During his silence, she slid a chair to the bedside and sat. She waited, with a relaxed attitude, seemingly for Steve to be ready to continue.

“How long have I been here?” he finally answered.

“I will answer all of your questions, Mr. Lewis. But it is going to take some time. I need you to answer my questions first, because I don’t want my answers to influence your memories, but let me start.

“I’m Doctor Samira. As I told you, you’re in the neuropsychiatric ward of Mercy Hospital in Richmond. You have had a rather severe psychotic event. You will be able to recover from this, but there may be some changes in your lifestyle. Are you ready to talk, or would you like some time?”

Steve didn’t understand it, but tears welled in his eyes. He felt his throat choke. He nodded briskly.

Dr. Samira pulled a tissue from the box, and dabbed his eyes.

“What is the last thing you remember, Mr. Lewis?”

“Steve,” he said, “please call me Steve.”

“Of course, Steve.”

“I went to the plantation home of Lowell Sterling. I’d had problems getting there and arrived really late. He invited me to use his guest room. I’d gone there to see an old diary in which his grandmother had written stories. He had given me the book, so I was reading as I lay in this, old, beautiful canopy bed. The journal was captivating. I probably read to three in the morning. I used the bathroom then went to sleep.”

He paused and thought, struggling to probe his memory for anything that might attach that moment to the present.

“And then I woke up here.”

She waited a moment to ensure he had nothing more to add.

“Your mind might confuse reality as dreams you might have had; do you remember any dreams?”

“I …,” he stopped for a moment, not quite sure, “I think so … but I only remember despair.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” He fought for a memory but could summon nothing.

“You’ll likely begin remembering,” she said sympathetically, “but pushing yourself won’t help. It will happen in its own time.

“Let me fill in the gap for you,” she began.

“The next day, Mr. Sterling became concerned for you. Late in the morning, when you didn’t reply to repeated knocks at the door, he entered your room and tried to gently shake you awake.

“He says you shot upright, stood in the bed, crouched down below the canopy. He says you were screaming nonsensical things about getting back to a ship, that you couldn’t find your companion. He wasn’t able to calm you nor make sense of what you were saying. He couldn’t convince you to get down from the bed.

“With nothing else do, Mr. Sterling called the police. The rural officers, unfortunately, don’t have much experience with this sort of thing. They forcefully apprehended you. When you arrived here, you were very agitated, and raved unintelligibly. Despite our best efforts, our orderlies had to restrain you in bed, and we’ve had you under heavy sedation. Each time we tried bringing you out, you were panicked about the ship and your companion. That’s gone on for the last few days.”

“Few days?” Steve uttered in shock.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. … Now, there are some unpleasant realities about your situation. By law, we will detain you for twenty-four hours to determine if you’re a threat to yourself or others. That just began. We’ll be running some tests, neurological scans and such. That’s the bad news.

“The good news is that, if you’re agreeable and when you’re ready, I’ll have the orderlies remove these restraints, and we’ll get started.”

That night, laying unrestrained in his hospital bed, images rushed into his mind. Steve remembered the vivid details of his dream about the Explorer. As the scene replayed, again and again, of the ground rushing up, he recognized the plantation home — before any additions were made.

Having already agreed to a treatment plan that would set him free, he said nothing.