Twisted

A poke of the needle brings me to consciousness. Stuck between sleep and consciousness, I’m numb from the neck down. What is happening?

Opening my eyes is too difficult a feat at the moment. I can’t hear but their voices are probing themselves into my mind anyway. Telepathy is a neat trick for a deaf person like me. My mind has to be clear though and it’s more than a bit hazy.

I taste something sour and cottony. My skin feels like a thousand fire ants are crawling on it. My head is bent down toward my chest. I’m breathing in a scent that makes me think of hospitals.

Is it a dream? Not likely. The sensations are too real. I’m limp and lifeless. I attempt to move my smallest finger. It twitches slightly but that’s all.

Blood pressure is holding steady. She’s stable.

Good. Prep her.

Prep me? For what? Surgery? Am I here as a result of an accident? I’m hazy on the details but nothing springs to mind of a car collision. The last thing I remember is falling asleep in my own bed.

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who these people are.

I make another attempt to move any body part. I discover I can flex my toes. They aren’t so numb.

Hands lift me up and place me in some kind of wheeled conveyance. A chair? A gurney? I can’t tell. Most of my body is still numb. I don’t know which way is up. If only I can open my eyes.

I’m floating, suspended. Not quite grounded in reality. They take me through the corridors almost as if I’m suspended in mid-air. I feel like I’m drugged. Loopy. Light headed.

My mind and body are disconnected. Behind my eyelids there is light and shadows. I can’t decipher between the two. I need to push past the brain fog. Figure out where I am. Where they are taking me.

114657.

Take her to the eighth floor, I’ll be there shortly.

Yes. Doctor.

I must be going to my room then. I have been injured and they are securing me for an overnight stay. My mind supplies the information but really, there is very little go on.

A bunch of numbers listing my vitals. That’s it.

No. Wait. Another set of numbers. Not a birth date. A pin number? For a restricted area?

With my head down, I open my eyes. A blurry gray fog is all I can see. I’m wearing some kind of gown with a diamond print. The fabric is thin and barely covers my knees.

From this angle, I see little else. Except maybe the floor which is glaring white. The gleaming tiles reflect the lights coming from the ceiling. My bedroom doesn’t have bright white tiles, it has soft gray carpeting.

I flick my eyes from side to side. Through the strands of my hair, I see more of the same white. The walls are coated with some kind of glossy substance that has a mirror-like effect.

I see a girl with her head hanging over her chest. I see the gown. Her legs and arms are super thin. Emaciated. Her hair is stringy. Without life or luster. Her skin is waxy pale.

She’s me but she can’t possibly be me. I weigh one hundred and ten pounds. My hair is long and dark brown. My eyes are green with flecks of gold in them.

The girl in the reflection doesn’t look healthy at all. She looks as if she’s dying. In the last stages of some horrible disease that has eaten away her body.

We enter an elevator. Now my reflection is gone. I peer up at the numbers. We are going down, not up. The elevator stops at level eight.

I’m taken down a corridor full of empty rooms. I see her again. Same as before. Thin. Sickly. I cannot reconcile her image to my own. But when I look at my legs, they are stick thin.

My mind won’t accept it. The image of myself in my head doesn’t match the one I see in the gleaming white walls. Doesn’t fit with what I notice on my own body.

My vision is clearing little by little. Now I can see the veins in my hands. I can see my heart beat on my wrist. I’ve always been fair skinned with pink undertones but this is shockingly white. Like chalk white.

What has happened to me? Who has done this? Why am I here? I have no answers. The person who is pushing me doesn’t supply them either. Their thoughts are blank.

114657.

Definitely a code. I memorize the number. 114657. Just in case.

I’m pushed into a room that is so much like a hospital room that I’m confused. Am I sick or injured? Maybe I’ve been in a coma for a long time. That will explain my skinny body.

I just wish I could remember.

I’m transferred to the bed. I make myself as limp as possible. Instinct tells me to keep the fact that I’m awake to myself. I don’t know why but I think it’s important that I don’t give myself away.

The orderly or medic or nurse or whatever, ties me to the metal railings. I flex the muscles in my arms and legs as the knots are tightened. When the person leaves, the lights are shut off. In the dark, I wriggle my hands out of the loose bindings.

From somewhere in my past, I’ve learned this trick. From whom I can’t say. How or when or where is a blank. I just instinctively know what to do.

I assume I’m being watched. They wouldn’t tie me to the bed if they aren’t keeping a close eye on me. There must be cameras in the room.

Through half open eyes, I spot the cameras in the ceiling. This makes it harder for me to effect an escape.

My body is still mostly numb. I can feel my fingers and toes but that’s about it. I’ll have to wait until the temporary paralysis wears off.

There’s nothing about this that is normal. My mind is blank on how I got here. From sleeping in my own bed to waking up here in this strange place. Not quite a hospital but yet a place that smells like one.

The subject is responding to the Trazinal.

At what level is she?

8.9.

I’d like to get her to 9.7.

It will be difficult. We almost lost her last time. She needs time.

She doesn’t have it. They want results and they want them yesterday.

I’ll do my best but if we lose her...

We won’t. She’s more resilient than you think. Get it done.

Yes, Director.

One of the voices is vaguely familiar. I know him from somewhere but my mind doesn’t put a picture of him into my mind. I can’t shake the feeling that I know him in a different capacity. A more personal one.

One thing is clear. I can’t stay here. Whatever their plans for me, I have to get out before they drug me again.

I slip my hands out of the bindings. I sit up slowly and carefully. My body isn’t fully functioning but I have to move. Now. I untie the bindings secured to my legs. I should be thankful, they’re cloth bindings and not chains.

Getting out of bed is harder. I swing my legs over the side and attempt to stand. My legs crumple immediately. Not quite fully recovered.

I hold onto the bed and shuffle toward the end of it. In the dark, I see a bathroom. The door is slightly ajar. I take a deep breath and push off from the bed.

A wobbling momentum gets going and I stagger toward the bathroom. A shower, toilet and a sink. There’s a mirror above the sink.

A half-assed plan forms. It’s risky. But I need some kind of weapon if I’m going to get out of the room.

I lean my full weight on the sink, not quite in control of my body just yet. I lift my head. My eyes meet my reflection. The gasp builds into a scream. I trip over my feet tumbling backward into the wall. Not possible. It cannot be possible.

The me in the mirror is looking away. She’s not in sync with me at all.

Her hair, her eyes, her posture are all me but she’s acting independently. I lift my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes. She doesn’t. I touch my nose. She’s still looking to her right.

I sign the words, “Who are you?”

She doesn’t respond.

Finally, I glance in the direction she’s looking but all I see is the shower stall. The shower curtain is white filmy plastic with metal rings securing it in place.

When I glance back at the mirror, she’s looking at me now. She lifts her hands, she forms the sign for, run. Left index finger hooked to her right thumb. Her right index makes the motion.

I stand there, dumbfounded. She’s me right? So of course she knows sign language. But I shouldn’t be seeing this at all. My reflection shouldn’t be acting this way.

So I don’t move. I don’t do as she says. I just stand there and watch her.

Then the image flickers and winks out like it has bad reception. It changes to a corridor much like the one outside the room. Two men are striding down it.

The one on the right has red coppery hair and is short of stature. The one on the left is Dr. Neal Carson, my therapist.

The blood drains from my face. No. It can’t be. Not him.

The scream that has been building ever since my awakening, climbs to a crescendo. As soon as Neal crosses the threshold, I unleash the scream. His companion collapses immediately. Blood streams out of the guy’s eyes, nose and mouth.

Neal takes longer to go down.

Weak, I bend over, trying to keep from passing out. This is my chance. I have to go now.

I stagger into the room and grab Neal’s ID card. He’s not dead but his companion is. I stab Neal with the needle, watching the liquid pump into his system.

I put on his lab coat and leave the room.