I wake in the familiarity of complete darkness. No—not complete darkness, a sliver of amber light shines through from the crack under the door. But it's not my door—at least— not the bedroom I have been waking up in for the last few days. This bedroom has a different orientation, this bed—which, on second thought, feels like a different mattress than mine—is on the left side of the door, opposite of where mine sits. I check my whole body for injuries but there doesn't seem to be any deep wounds. My throat is parched and the skin on my face and neck feels raw, but other than that, nothing else feels wrong.
Then I make the mistake of lifting my hand, stretching the skin around my wrists, which disturbs the bandage they are in. Deep stinging pain immediately attacks the wounded spot and I see dark stains on the white bandage start expanding. Shit—I must have reopened the wound. Which gets me questioning—who took care of me and bandaged up my wounds?
