“Ahhh, where am I?” Waking up with a flashlight burning your cornea is not even close to as fun as it sounds.

“You're at St. Joseph’s hospital. Do you know what today’s date is?”

“September 24th or I guess the 25th. Why am I in a hospital? What am I doing here?” Looking around told me that I was in a bed at what was an emergency care unit. St. Joseph’s Hospital was on the northside of the park. Although I couldn’t recall how I had gotten here, however the why became clear, the sharp pain still poking into my back brought back some flashes of warm blood and a cool bench.

“You were in a pretty bad accident, it looks like you fell onto something sharp. You have a laceration on your back, you lost quite a lot of blood before some kind hikers found you and brought you here. Luckily the cut itself wasn’t too deep, it didn’t hit anything vital. So with a few more hours on an IV drip and a few days resting you should be fine.”

Where are we?

“St. Joseph’s hospital.” I muttered out loud.

The doctor looked back in confusion “Yes St. Joseph’s, it also appears you have a mild fungal infection. You will need to grab a prescription when you leave, it shouldn’t be too serious.” She reached over to the bedside table with a small paper cup and a glass of water, handing them both to me. “Since you're awake you can take your antifungal treatment now, no need for more shots. And a nurse will come to unhook your IV in a few hours, then you pick up your prescriptions and head home to rest.” She explained, before scribbling down something on a pad and tearing off two sheets before handing them to me.

“Alright, thank you.” I held the little paper cup with two oblong shaped pills with one hand, while the other held a shaking glass of water. My head was swimming and my stomach turned at the thought of putting anything into it. However, with a reluctant sigh I brought the paper cup up to my mouth and tilted my head back.

Do not take those.

Looking around in confusion, I realized the voice was only in my head. I squashed the thought with the logical argument that suffering through the two pills would make me feel better sooner. Then proceeded to try to down the pills and water before my mind tried to argue back.

STOP.

The feeling of someone’s hand clamping my throat shut made me cough up the half-swallowed pills.

I told you not to take those.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

I then proceeded to vomit all over the side of the freshly made bed. With a groan of pain and overexertion I proceeded to curl up in my hospital bed, trying anything to ease the feeling of an incompetent lumber jack attempting to hack his way through the top of my skull.

An uncomfortably long few hours passed, nurses cleaning me up, and more painkillers to ease the headache before I was finally shoved out of the E.R. Pills in hand and a pain so deep that I couldn’t even feel the fresh stab wound in my back.

We should go back to the house and rest for a while.

“Yah think.” Grumbling at what was clearly my mind unable to bear even the most minor of loads I proceeded to grab a taxi that smelled worse than the hospital. It must have had one too many drunk passengers, as the insides made my stomach churn all over again. Incoherently mumbling my address, and trying not to add new smells to the old car, I sat back for what turned out to be the most uncomfortable twenty minutes in my life.

Reaching my little rundown building, I left the car luckily in the same state that I entered it. Barely able to get to the door after my third stumble up the small staircase, then fumbling for my keys only proved to worsen my already sour mood.

I made my way into the dull one bedroom apartment, going to the bathroom mirror to look at the disgusting new mess on my back. The wound was large and harsh to look at, quickly pulling my shirt down over the new eye sore. I proceeded to the tiny kitchen table where I had left my pills, reluctant to take the little things that would ease my pain.

Trying to read the instructions on the pill bottle with a fuzzy head and even fuzzier vision. “Uhh, fuck my life. Two of these overpriced Advil’s every six hours, and two antifungals every twelve hours.”

A glass of water and two painkillers down, I tip out a couple of the antifungal pills, the oblong shape giving me flashbacks of the splitting headache. A lump forms in my throat, fear closing my windpipe from the mere thought of having to go through that ordeal all over again.

If you are so nervous, don’t take the pills. It is only a fungal infection, what is the worst that could happen?

“The best outcome is me being dragged back to the hospital by a random group of strangers again.” So with a shuddering breath, I swallow the lump forming in my throat and put the two pills on my tongue.

I would appreciate it if you didn’t do that, John.

“What?” Spitting out the tasteless pills on my tongue. I look around the apartment for the strange voice that echoes through my skull. The voice was wrong and inhuman, it sounded like my own voice was spoken through a rotting log. “Who’s there?”

It is just you and me John, there is no one else in the apartment.

“Oh okay, so I finally snapped that’s all, I'm just developing schizophrenia.” The lump of fear is back again, making it hard to breathe. My heart starts to beat faster, like a drum pounding in my ears. I lean against one of the chairs to steady my shaking frame.

The worst possible outcomes cross my mind. I am actually dying and this is just the lack of blood causing delirium, or I am sitting and drooling against the floor of a mattress padded room, or worst of all I am sitting in my apartment and am starting to have delusions. The thought of not being able to tell what is real and what is fake, unable to tell if anyone is truly there, incapable of trusting any of my own memories. My breath quickens, I start to lose focus, and my legs shake beneath me.

Stop. You are going to have a panic attack.

“I AM ALREADY HAVING A PANIC ATTACK! Best case is that I am dying, lying at the bottom of a pit, covered in my own blood.”

You are not going crazy.

“Hearing that from you, is not convincing in the least.”

Breathe, and try to relax. Panicking will do nothing, once you are calm we can fully discuss the ramifications of my presence.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I lean my back against the chair and stare at the ceiling, not a single fully formed thought comes to mind. As my brain races through all the less than likely scenarios that could explain the unnatural voice coming from inside of my own head. I’m not sure when, but I drifted off into a restless sleep, luckily it is one of the few things that allows my mind and body to calm enough to allow a rational thought to cross.

Why the hell did the voice not want me to take antifungal pills?