So, I probably shouldn’t have looked into it this much.
That’s my first thought, anyway, as I come to. The world around me consists of four white— really, really white— walls and a bed. The bed isn’t even comfortable, which is just plain rude considering they have me strapped down to it. I mean, if you’re gunna bind a guy to a bed, can you at least make it soft? Is that too much to ask?
My head spins. I remember the terminal, I remember the click of keys, and then I remember nothing. I was onto something, I know I was, but that something is lost in the fuzz produced by whatever is jabbing at the inside of my right arm. It smarts like a bitch, but I can’t even bend my head down far enough to see what it is, because hey! Fancy that. I’m still strapped down.
I’d really like to know how I got here, but it’s probably more important to figure out how not to be here. Can’t move my arms or legs except for the tiniest inch under the bite of what feels like leather. Can’t even see an exit.
The bed, though… Uncomfortable beds are cheap beds, right?
I’m not exactly what you’d call a big man, or even a medium-sized one, but it doesn’t take much to flip the thing over. Don’t ask me how I did it, because I’m still not sure. Maybe it was a surge of adrenaline, or maybe my grand total of two-point-five weeks lifting weights finally kicked in. All I know is, one minute I’m laying back and staring at the ceiling, and the next my cheek is squashed against the cold floor, with something sticky dripping from my fingers.
And I’m thinking, Really? They made it that easy? as I’m twisting and wiggling and grunting like a lunatic, making a show almost as poor as the first time I had— okay, no, let’s not go there, let me back up a second. I manage to dig my heel into the mattress, put some pressure there, hear some flimsy springs complain. It takes no less than a goddamn eternity to get enough of a dent in the thing to slide my ankle free, thanking every religious figure I ever learned about in grade school for bestowing me with the freakish gift of a double joint.
My arms are the hardest part. The fall knocked one of the restraints loose by a fraction, but it still takes up all my patience to wrench a wrist free— as it so happens, it’s the one conveniently slicked up by red. The stuff coats my arm, I discover a second later, having trailed from the inside of my arm where the needle ripped free. Thankfully, I barely feel it. I try not to recall that I passed out the last time I saw Dad getting his blood drawn.
I’m on my feet, but they don’t feel like my feet, and the glare of bright light on too-white walls makes it hard to do anything but squint. It’s freezing. I’m in boxer shorts. My limbs are jelly from exhaustion and sedation. I think I’m going to vomit. I’m bleeding. I need to take a leak, probably out of fear.
…But there’s a door in front of me, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get my ass through it.
The above is an adapted version of an actual dream I had a few nights ago. The dream was so detailed, complex and vivid that I decided to write it out and share. Keep a look out for part 2, and please feel free to offer constructive criticism!