The surroundings look different. Fluorescent tubes illuminate the monochromatic wallpaper in the room. Light dribbles in from the slightly cracked window just beyond my reach. A mixed odor of hospice and rubbing alcohol shrouded the room. Raising my arm, I gently pull away from the tubes, cords, and cot that held me back. Residents line the halls and peer like I’m a carnival attraction hell-bent on receiving their attention. My stare shifts swiftly to the dusty linoleum. Escape.
The marks on my arms remind me of her. The amber, callous skin is a constant memory of my demons. Tears form at the thoughts of the incident. My desperation and sorrow overwhelming my self control. Breezes drift by and distract me. Hair whips my face. I can’t control the spiral I’m trapped in. The grip is so tight that I am compacted. Ribs protruding, spine aching, wrists cracking. This pressure is immense. I can’t take it. Breathless.
Forcing my way through the blur in my newly born sight, I attempt to identify this new habitat. The room lacks windows. A single light bulb dangles and swings like a pendulum. The metal against my back presses against my spine. The room is empty, with exception of me, the ‘bed’ I am restrained to, and that unstable light bulb, and devoid of anything I am used to. A chill runs rampant along the solemn brick walls. The silence rips at my mind. The hinges creak open and the luminescent figure of a woman walks in. She says something, but it is inaudible. My sight slightly sharpens before I feel the pierce of the syringe. The scenery becomes abstract. Blackout.
The fluorescent tubes from before make their second appearance. My eyes twitch at the exposure. This cycle is becoming quite tiring.