All thoughts are momentarily shut down at the reverberated tippity-tap of heeled feet on the Marmoleum patterned floor, contrasting the clomping pound of anxious oxfords. I am met with a head of short, light brown, greasy hair sitting atop a fine, charming face. Cold black eyes set gracefully within their sockets, and a minor, inch-long scar on the right side of his forehead rests upon the pale skin. He wears a full, white, long-sleeved surgical uniform with a jade green, hospital-issued coat. Standing beside him is a taller woman of slightly younger age, she has honey-beige skin, and short, dark, hair in a messy bob of curls. She wears a white lab coat, seafoam scrubs, and shiny, toxic yellow boots. Sharp blue eyes tinted darker by circular glasses and an angular face that gives her an effortless look of peeved anticipation.
My eyes flicker to their name tags, it is obvious that they work here, wherever 'here' might be. I would guess the man is around his mid-forties, his name tag reads Dr. Loosin, and underneath in smaller lettering, it states his full name and job title: Peadar Loosin, Sr. Neurology MD. The woman could be either in her late twenties or early thirties, her name tag reads Lucinda Tricyclic.
Being met with the first two unremarkable-looking people is refreshing yet terrifying, though speaking to Nur Nat felt forebodingly familiar, so I was much less wary. These two new figures present a different form of challenge, the challenge of trying to maintain a facade of okay-ness rather than hoping not to poke the unpredictable bear that is Nur Nat'semotions.
I give the two an awkward wave, apprehensive of how else to greet them. My discomfort is palpable; regardless, I keep my gaze calm and steady pointed towards the duo. Dr. Loosin shoots me a disinterested and exasperated glare, wearing a quite clearly fake smile to hide his own anxieties. Tricyclic instead has a more curious and confused look, rather than an unfriendly glare. Loosin's eyes narrow slightly as he looks down at my face and body. He then takes a short step forward, and with a critiquing tone and a thin shroud of politeness he demands:
"What's your assigned number, and why might you be out of your room? Patients are not allowed to wander without permission from their supporting surgeon or other supervising medical specialist . . ." I pause in my thoughts and look between the two doctors. I notice a subtle Irish accent that graces his speech. Hesitantly, I respond to his beration with a soft, yet confident tone.
"I- I do not know what number you are talking about, but I do remember waking up, my head filled with frills covering my thoughts. Someone entered my room, and they instructed me to follow them out, and they went by the name Nur Nat. I do not know if they are a doctor, but their attire definitely did not look anything like the uniform you are wearing."
"Hmmm. Next time don't follow the first human being who comes up to you," scolds the doctor. Tricyclic scoffs lightly and rolls her eyes. I observe their odd dynamic silently, allowing them to bicker and address me, even though I have not taken in an ounce of what they are saying. After a few seconds of watching their stubborn performance, I lightly clear my throat,
"What is this place, and why am I here? My name is V. Reykur, and I believe there has been a mistake." They both turn back to me with cold eyes. Loosin is even more discontented than when I first appeared, while Tricyclic looks slightly melancholy under her uncaring exterior. The doctor takes a couple of steps closer to me, examining my body and scrutinizing my yellowed eyes. With a cross between interest and disapproval, he circles me like a cornered mouse in his grand trap. I mentally squirm in discomfort, while keeping a calm and confident appearance. After a few minutes of tense silence, Dr. Loosin stands up to his full height once again and mumbles something nearly incoherent about how 'unusual' I am.
"Follow us, there are some tests you'll need to take, it's a simple routine procedure, don't worry too much, and it will all be painless in the end." My eyes widen and I take a quick step back. Finally, I am beginning to realize the insignificance of my needs, and the disregard of my free will. With fearful eyes, I search the generic room for an exit. I remember what Nur Nat said to me, they told me that I 'can handle this on my own'. . . That should mean something, it means that I need to stay collected because I must repay Nur Nat for helping me. I ignore my caution, allowing it to once again be brushed under the rug, deciding to go along with the doctors. Tricyclic snatches my wrist and begins a swift pace in order to remain slightly in front of Loosin. Her grip is not painful, but it holds me in precisely the right way so I cannot escape, a sharp contrast to her impatient stride. Using the silence of the walk, I attempt to think about everything peculiar that has happened since I awoke. When I delve into my mind it feels oddly crowded, well. . . not crowded, but not quite as lonely as usual. I can hear my thoughts told by my inner narrator, but occasionally other ideas drift into my mental cue cards. It is like a second voice in my mind, slowly joining our ideas, and cultivating a new set of ideals and dreams. Before I can even attempt to overhear these new thoughts, the feeling of my wrist being released from Tricyclic's grasp startles me, and I am flung out of my mental deconstruction.
We are now in a similar hospital room to where I started. It is the same simple shape, the same bland white, and the same bitter, medicinal, scent. I am seated upon the raised hospital bed, and there are muddled sapphire blankets neatly folded at the foot of the mattress. Dr. Loosin wheels a small metal table over to the side of the bed. There are surgical instruments, syringes, and small plastic jars of different liquids and powders, none of which I recognize. Staying silent and wide-eyed, I track Loosin's every movement. In my peripherals, I can notice Tricyclic standing silently in the corner of the room, occasionally handing the doctor tools to set up his portable surgical table. He lifts my hospital gown and sticks three wires to me: one goes on my sternum area, another just below my left clavicle, and the final one is placed under my right. I try not to wriggle from the discomfort of my bare torso and arms being prodded by the doctor. Dr. Loosin puts on a layer of medical gloves and then begins to prepare a syringe with a thick and mysterious red liquid.
"I need your arm now." commands the doctor. Without waiting for a response, Loosin turns my right arm to face him, and he slides the needle deep into a muscle. The whole injection is curiously. . . enjoyable? It is mind-numbing, or satisfying, or euphoric, possibly a mix of all three. I lay on the hospital bed, completely unaware of whatever Tricyclic and Loosin are doing, capable of focusing only on the foreign feeling of relaxation coursing through my body. After a few minutes of silence, Tricyclic speaks for the first time since we met; the sound is smoother than Loosin's voice but missing any real warmth.
"That was just a simple narcotic to help with any pain from just waking up. You'll have to take a few doses every day, but for now, that is all we will have to give you."
I drowsily turn and respond with a dazed,
"M-mhm . . ." Taking a long, deep breath, I prepare to speak again in an attempt to quiet my agitated thoughts.
"Why am I here? . . . I just remember waking up in a room, I know I have a life, and I can remember plenty of details from it. But I do not know why I would have to be here . . . at a hospital. And I do not remember any injuries or illnesses that I would need narcotics for. I am a librarian, my job is not dangerous, I do not have any romantic partners or family to send me here, and I know my friends certainly would not. I do not feel sick, or injured, or particularly mentally ill, so how did I get to this hospital? What hospital am I even at?" I begin to panic, which is quite an abnormal thing for me to do. My hands subconsciously clutch the sheets of the hospital bed, holding them tighter and tighter as I talk. Regardless of my trepidation, I cannot focus on my thoughts, instead, I am getting sucked into a sea of calm. Shivers and tingles perforate my fingers and toes, I attempt to resist the urge to let my body do what it is craving, and fall back into the hospital bed for a long and deep rest. Mumbling nearly silent words of prayer in the hope of gaining some form of clarity and peace, my limbs drag along the covers as I pull myself to a half-standing, half-leaning position. Readjusting the wires attached to my chest, I pull down my hospital gown, so I am fully covered. The moment my feet touch the floor, I find it difficult to hold myself in an upright posture, so I slide back onto the hospital bed.