There was a fractured sense of calm in the midst of the hysteria floating through her mind as she lay in the bed. She could hear screams resounding from behind the stone walls of her room. She could not be sure if it came from the corridors or if there even were corridors. But she heard them all the same, echoing through the dark spaces. The screams were eerie and unsettling, like the cries of mad people.

Psychiatric, she thought. Is that where they have placed me? It appeared to be more like a mausoleum—cold and frightening and haunted. Her eyes made their way across the room to take in her bleak surroundings. The walls were made of cinderblock, painted a light gray as if to shut out any ideas of joy or peace. A greenish-brown mold creeped across some of the blocks, and above the mold were streaks of water stains—proving the roof most definitely leaked. The only piece of furniture other than her bed, with its musty mattress and aluminum side-rails, was a thin metal cabinet with one door ajar to reveal the contents of tubes, cotton swabs, and catheter bags. There was a systematic beeping coming from one of the many machines she was hooked to. She wondered which one it was and which of the many tubes and wires stemming from her body connected to it.

The door to her room opened, and a woman walked inside. She was dressed like a nurse, but her demeanor was anything but pleasant. She could faintly recall having seen the nurse before, but her mind was still so groggy. Have I been conscious before? The only thing she really could remember was that she did not like the nurse. In fact, she found herself quite afraid of her.

“I see you are still awake,” the nurse said approaching the bed to unfasten the urine bag from one of the many tubes. “Don’t try to speak,” the nurse instructed. “You wouldn’t be able to anyway.”

The nurse connected a fresh bag to the catheter tube and grabbed the patient’s wrist with her cold, clammy hand. She told the patient, “Your pulse is good. You are definitely making progress.” Yet she never made any notation in the chart hanging on the door.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“I-I…uh..I..” The patient tried to speak, but it was no use. The voice would not come forth. Her throat felt like hardened cement, and her tongue was so weak it could barely move. Each attempt at communication made her throat feel like a knee scraping concrete.

The nurse looked angry, almost like she wanted to strike the patient. “I told you not to try to speak!” she scolded. “You are not yet capable of forming words. Do not disobey me again! I am all you have around here. You’d be wise not to upset me.”

The nurse removed a small bottle and a needle wrapped in plastic from her pocket. She tore off the plastic and plunged the needle into the bottle, withdrawing its contents. Grabbing one of the tubes hanging from the IV stand, she injected the medication into the tube.

“You’ll be more relaxed very soon,” she said to the patient before walking out and locking the door behind her.

The patient lay in bed staring up at the grimy, water-stained tiles of the drop ceiling. The roof leaks, she reminded herself. She was remembering now. She had been awake before. Many times. She could recall now what it felt like when water dripped onto her from those stains above. How long had she lain there with rain dripping on her face in the past? Did that awful nurse ever try to move her bed out of the path of water? What was in the bottle she injected her with? Was it the reason why she felt so sleepy all of the time? Was this why thinking was such a struggle for her?

There was so much she did not know. She had been in this room for so long, yet she had no memory of it. Would she ever manage to speak again? Or walk? And where exactly would she walk to if she could? Certainly not out there in that corridor. Not where all those horrible screams were coming from. She wondered just what they were doing to the poor person who was out there screaming. She wanted to cry. She was at the mercy of this cruel nurse. Does anyone even know I am here? The nurse was the only person she had seen since she had been here. Would anyone else ever come? Didn’t this place have other staff?

The patient wanted to cry but stopped herself. It might anger the nurse when she came back. If she came back. Sometimes she didn’t. Even though she was a terrible caretaker, the nurse was all she had after all. She did not want to anger her. She was quite sure that the tender place on her cheek which still stung a little, had come from angering the nurse—although she couldn’t quite remember. She could not remember anything. All she could think about now was sleep.