Sitting in the wheelchair, I glance outside through the window—something that interests me most of the time since I regained consciousness a week ago after three months in a coma.
I just sit and watch the patients with their families, their care towards each other—something I lack entirely.
I envy them. I mean freedom.
The door opens, and a woman with curly hair tied in a ponytail walks in to stand beside me.
If there is one person who wishes for my survival, it's her. She is obsessed with seeing my doom in court, all because of her ridiculous assumptions.
"How long do I have to stay here?" I ask without looking at her. I'm sick of the strong smell of death around here.
"You'll have surgery in the next few days," she replies curtly.
"I hate knives."
She scoffs. "That isn't my problem."
Yanran immediately snatches the pen from me, and I almost panic. She gives me a weird look as though I'm unhinged, then grabs my hand to cuff me.
While talking to her, I had been using the pen to pierce my hand—something I do to soothe the anger burning inside me. I survived the accident, but I'm still not sure if I should take that as a victory.
I grab Yanran's hand before she does anything. "I was bored and angry and was just looking for something funny. You don't need to put those things on me."
She ignores my words and cuffs me anyway. Then she leaves, ordering the officers to keep an eye on me from inside the room.
They sit on the couch while I lie in bed, watching the news on the television. Only one of my hands is restrained, cuffed to the bedframe.
The news is about the congresswoman's daughter, who has been missing for three months. They claim that I, the kidnapper, have woken up, raising the chances of finding her.
My hand tightens around the remote. What makes them so sure I'm the Scupper? I may have lost my memories, but I know I would never kill anyone.
In anger, I hurl the remote forward, smashing it against the screen. The officers' eyes widen as they try to understand what just happened. While they're distracted, I pull out a cigarette and lighter I've been hiding in my pockets.
The Scupper? What nonsense. I place the cigarette between my lips and take a puff, letting the smoke clear my mind.
The officers gape at me, their eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. One of them, a woman, searches her pocket, probably realizing where I got the cigarette. Yeah, it's her cheap cigar. Can't she just buy another one?
She rushes toward me and tries to snatch the cigarette, overreacting like they always do.
I pull my hand back and, with a swift motion, grab a handcuff from her pocket, locking her wrist to the bedframe. I've wanted to do that for a long time. They should taste their own medicine.
The other officer stands abruptly.
"Don't take it seriously, I was just playing," I say, raising the cigarette. "Don't shoot me, officer… Sorry, I forgot your names."
The officer glares at me but doesn't do anything.
A nurse steps in and freezes at the doorway, sensing the tense air. She's my regular nurse, frequently checking on my weak legs.
She's a young woman around my age, her black hair neatly pinned in a bun. I appreciate her because she isn't afraid of me, unlike the other nurses who never visit me alone.
The officers relax and let her do her job. After checking on me, she hands me some pills.
"Have you ever thought about leaving this place?" she asks quietly as she packs up the bottles of medicine.
I glance at the officers—one is outside, the other is relaxed because of the nurse's presence. Then I look back at her, wondering what answer she expects. What if I have? What if I haven't?
Her question seems absurd, considering how difficult it is for me to even attempt an escape.
"I can help you," she adds.
Dammit. For the first time, I read the name tag on her uniform and recognize her as Aihan.
"Your enemies know where you are. This place isn't as safe as you think. You're just bait to catch something bigger..."
She doesn't have to tell me something I already know. "Thanks for your concern, but it's not something I worry about," I reply, turning my attention back to a magazine.
"Of course, I'm the same as them, but I have no intention of killing you."
I close the magazine and turn to her. In her own way, she's admitting to being one of those I've offended, yet she still wants to help. It doesn't make sense.
What could a nurse possibly do to help me escape with officers outside and my useless legs? Not that I plan to leave, anyway.
"Scared?" she persists. "You don't have time. Many others are on their way here. She said if you hesitate, I should say, 'Nayan sent me.'" Saying this in a low voice, Aihan collects her tools and walks out.
"Nayan?" I repeat the name, wondering who it could be.
Later, I'm taken to a lab, where they scan my body and run blood tests. After all the procedures, the doctor points to my brain scans and carefully explains my condition.
There's an issue in my brain that, if left untreated, means I won't live more than a year. The problem also poses a high risk to my senses, especially my sight, which is why surgery is necessary.
I can tell that heaven is trying its best to kill me; it just doesn't want to do it all at once. Hell, I'm not even fighting back.
Since waking up from my coma, I don't remember anything—not who I am or what I've done to end up in this pathetic state.
Sometimes my vision blurs, and my hearing fades.
How am I supposed to live with a body like this and memory loss? Add to that the officers guarding me day and night, waiting for the day I'll stand trial.
Lost in thought, I don't notice that I've been scratching my hand with my nails until the gown turn red.
How much longer will I have to live like this?
The officers, noticing the blood, rush to grab my hands, and one of them cuffs me to stop me from doing more harm. Damn them—they always cuff me when I do something like this.
After the doctor checks my wounds, I'm returned to my ward. The officers sit inside on the sofa, their eyes glued to me. I can see the toll their constant vigilance is taking on them.
"What sentence will I get for my crimes?" I ask, breaking the silence. I don't really want to know—I just want to talk to someone, and this seems like a topic that might engage them.
The female officer scoffs. "Death, if the judge is merciful."
Harsh. How many people do they think I've killed? Is it really alright to just wait for my doom?
But then, my eyes grow heavy. I can barely keep them open, feeling drowsy beyond control. I glance at the officers and see them shaking their heads, trying to stay awake as they fumble with their phones.
I give in and let myself collapse into the bed.