Revival

The first thing you notice is the beeping.

Beeping just like before, but slower, you remember through a haze.

That haze has clouded your vision, forcing you to rely on the sensations your skin is reporting back.

The first sensation: your left arm is on fire.

 You try to rub it, but your right arm won’t move.

The beeping has increased in tempo.

More of the haze clears as you blink. Enough to see your left arm.

Enough to see the needle and tube extending from it.

The beeping ceases for a moment. Then renews even faster now.

A vision of before floods in. They had stuck a needle in that arm before.

Is it still happening? Have you woken up only to go through this all over again?

Then your eyes flick to the IV bag. It was different before.

More than that, the room is different. You aren’t strapped to a gurney but propped up in a raised bed. And the most uncomfortable looking chair you’ve ever seen is gone.

Not that they designed it with the comfort of the occupant in mind, of course. They wouldn’t be in it for long.

The beeping calms somewhat.

Your neck still responds despite feeling impossibly stiff as you shift your head to the right.

There’s a window, just like before, but it’s a window to the outside now. Sunlight comes streaming through. A bright fall morning.

You can’t remember the last time you saw daylight through more than a slit.

And you definitely didn’t think you’d see daylight again.

But even with the dazzling view before you, you still see her. The woman with the eyes burning right through your soul.

You understood. Understood why she could hold such hate.

They had told you your words would be heard in the next room where she and the others sat watching behind the previous window.

So you had tried to explain. Explain that you understood why this was happening and that you were ready to accept what was due.

But the fire in those eyes had burned even brighter.

You had never been the best with words. Why should this moment be any different? No last-minute stroke of inspiration.

Now her eyes seem to drown out the sun beaming in. Even as you tell yourself she’s not really there, you don’t want to look into those eyes anymore.

Groaning, you shift your neck back to a neutral position, even that slight bit of effort leaving you drained.

That noise, more so than the heart monitor, seems to alert someone.

Exclamations of shock, of alarm. A bit out of reach of your muted hearing to fully decipher.

At least your eyesight has been washed clean by the sun so you can now see the figures scrambling on the other side of the room.

A nurse. A physician.

But also two police officers. They look at you with scorn.

Only now do your eyes look past the angry red marks on your arm to the gray metal loop hanging from the railing of the bed. Its counterpart is fastened to you.

With alarm, you realize you can’t feel the cold metal against your skin.

And a new spike of adrenaline crashes through your chest as you realize the handcuff is closed around your forearm because your wrist and hand are swollen to twice their normal size.

The heart monitor is sounding nearly continuously now.

“Out of my way,” you hear someone shout. The voice is distorted, like you’re hearing it while underwater. “I demand to speak with my client.”

A man in a rumpled suit barges past the officers and through the medical staff. His stubble suggests he hasn’t shaved in days.

“Christa,” he says. “Can you hear me?”

The face looks familiar and the voice is comforting, but you can’t quite place him.

Your throat is impossibly dry as you croak, “Where am I and who are you?”

He blinks, his jaw going slack. Like he hadn’t expected a response.

His wide eyes, the officers’ sneers, the woman’s angry stare: they all say the same thing.

You shouldn’t be here.

You should be dead.