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The same one as before.
No windows. Chair in the corner. Monet hanging from the white wall.
Despite the fog in my head, I know exactly where I am.
The only thing I don’t know is what will happen to me next and what’s already happened.
My body refuses to move, no matter how much I try. The fog is too heavy. My legs are useless. My arms are the same. Only my right hand moves—a weak flop against my side.
Turning my head is the most movement I can muster. A slow turn to the left lets me see the IV stand by the bed, its thin plastic tube snaking into my hand.
I can also tell that the bandage around my head is gone. My hair slides freely across the pillow when I roll my head in the oppositedirection. That’s where the photo of my family sits, my wan reflection visible in the cracked frame.
The sight of that pale face sliced into a dozen slivers causes my right hand to twitch. To my surprise, I can lift it. Not much. Just enough to get it to flop onto my stomach.
I move my hand across the hospital gown. Beneath the paper-thin fabric is a slight bump where a bandage sits. I can feel it on the upper left side of my abdomen, slightly below my breast. Touching it sends pain flashing through my body, cutting the fog enough for me to really feel it. Like a lightning strike.
With the pain comes panic. A confused horror in which I know something is wrong but I can’t tell what it is.
My hand keeps moving down my side, slow and trembling. Just to the left of my navel is a different dreadful rise. Another bandage.
More pain.
More panic.
More smoothing my hand over my stomach, fingers probing, searching for yet another bandage.
I find it in the center of my lower abdomen, several inches below my navel. It’s longer than the others. The pain gets worse when I press down on it. A gasp-inducing flare.
What did you do to me?
I think it more than say it. My voice is a dry croak, barely audible in the room’s dim silence. But in my head it’s a full-throated sob.
At my stomach, the pain burns with more intensity. This fire is no longer distant. It’s here. Roaring across my gut. I clutch it with my one working hand. My thoughts continue to scream. My weakling voice can only moan.
Outside the room, someone hears me.
It’s Bernard, who rushes in, his eyes no longer kind. When he glances my way, he looks not at me but past me. I moan again, and he disappears.
A moment later, Nick enters the room.
I let out another mental howl.
Get away from me! Please don’t touch me!
My voice can’t make it past that first word. A hoarse, haggard “Get.”
Nick removes my hand from my stomach and places it gently at my side. He feels my forehead. He strokes my cheek.
“The surgery was a success,” he says.
A single question forms in my thoughts.
What surgery?
I attempt to ask it, sputtering out half a syllable before the mental fog returns. I can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or if I’ve once again been injected with something. I suspect it’s the latter. Sleep threatens to overtake me. I’m back to being a swimmer, this time sinking into the murky depths.
Before I go under, Nick whispers in my ear.