A Thriller Story

Paul Haddock shivered. The cold air hit his bare neck, leaving an unpleasant chill on his skin. The sleeping part of his consciousness kicked him back to the dream. Desperately. Without any success. His nerve endings started to feel. Something was touching him. Lightly. The minimal weight pressed on his body. Like a touch of a feather. On his chest and his legs. It was enjoyable. Warm. Not like his neck. His body shivered again. He focused on the warmth on his chest, trying to ignore the goosebumps that developed on his forearms. Back to sleep. Please!

Something rustled in the background. Some rhythmical sound. Like up and down. Interesting. Up and down. What could it be? He knew that sound. He heard it before. Somewhere. Some machine. Or some song. The chain made of many songs flashed through his brain. No, nothing compared to that sound. It was something old. Something he hadn’t heard for a long time. Up and down. Or in and out. Yes, that was much better. In and out. And that rhythm. Waving. Swaying in the air. In and out. It connected to the frequency of contracting and releasing his muscles. Some of his muscles. His memories opened and brought back the cacophony of the whistling sounds, dark but light, like an organ. But synthetic. Oh my God, yes! Jean Michael Jarre. Oxygene. The breathing at the very end. His chest heaved in that rhythm. In and out. His breathing. He heard his breathing. His consciousness revved the engine.

Paul lay on his back. The mattress evenly pushed on him. On his shoulder blades, his buttocks, and his legs. The thin duvet covered him. Sufficiently light not to press him down, yet thick enough to keep the warmth of his body. He tried to move his right hand. Nothing. He tried harder. The hand didn’t move. Was he tied? Focusing on the skin of his right hand, he couldn’t confirm whether he was bound. Nothing pressed on his wrist. The hand lay along his body. He could feel the roughness of the fabric of the bedsheet. But just the right hand. Not the left hand. Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. Where was his left hand? He tried to recall the image of his left hand lying on the white bed sheet. Nothing. He had no left hand!

He scanned the remaining limbs. The left leg was there, as well as the right leg. He could sense them touching the bed. The right hand still there, no intents to move. On the place where his left hand used to be was the unpleasant tingling only. His ears caught a sharp beep, and his brain pushed it to the foreground. Beep. Beep. He sniffed the air. The sharp stench of disinfectant tickled his nose. Now, it was crystal clear. Paul was in the hospital, lying on the bed with an amputated left hand! They probably tied him so he wouldn’t harm himself. Oh, wait, that didn’t make sense. How could he harm himself without both hands? Or he could?

What could have happened? Not a single memory. The last thing he remembered was drinking a glass of red wine. At the party. Chris, his best friend, was there too. They laughed. And drink again. But he wasn’t drunk. No, he had never drunk a lot. What did they do then? All possible scenarios raced through his mind, starting from the terrorist attack and ending in him sacrificing his left arm for the sake of all people. But why would he sacrifice his left arm? What would be the point of it? The terrorist attack sounded more probable. The bomb had torn his arm off. But maybe it was a flight accident. Feel regret or be happy that despite the missing left arm, he was alive?

He needed to figure out this. It was the time to open his eyes and face the reality. His eyelids were heavy as if made of lead. Using all his strength, he forced them to move. The ambient white light found its way through the growing gap, hitting the back of his eyes.

Paul squinted. The ceiling was painted white, and the light reflected from it, scraping his eyes. He turned his head to the left. He couldn’t do it without pain. It hurt, but it wasn’t so bad. His left hand lay on the white bedsheet beside him. The translucent hose hung from the glass bottle above and led directly to his hand. He quickly turned his head to the right, ignoring the pain and the crack made by his spine. Paul’s body relaxed and let out a huge breath. He had both hands! Thank you!

The concerning thoughts returned, painting the big ‘why.’ Why was he in the hospital? Why was there a hose sticking out of his hand? Why he couldn’t move? He tried his right hand again. Now it moved. With a little effort. But it moved at last. He touched his face. The sharp endings of the hair on his unshaven face pressed the skin on his fingertips. He moved his hand farther to the top of his head. Something soft covered his forehead. A bondage. He scanned his entire head with his fingers. It was covered with a medical dressing. Oh bloody hell, what had happened?

Paul tensed his muscles to sit but was too weak to do so. He glanced at the glass bottle. ‘TPN’ written in big letters. He knew that. Total Parenteral Nutrition. Three years ago, he had suffered from appendicitis. The doctors had fed him with this substance for two days. Reading those three letters was his only distraction at that time. Later, he googled them for their meaning. It was like an artificial food containing glucose, proteins, and other nutrients. It was introduced for people who couldn’t use the digestive tract while staying in the hospital. How long had he lay here? Days? Months?

Paul checked the room as far as his eyes let him. Nothing special. White walls, a grey lino on the floor, and a white door. The white duvet covered his body. Turning his head to the right, he saw a wide window. It was covered by the white curtain, preventing him from seeing what was behind. No sign if it was day or night. No light entered from behind the curtain, so it was more likely night. Except for the floor, everything was white. Maybe he was already in heaven, and this was the initiating stage. His facial muscles tensed to the light smile. The idea of him being in heaven was absurd. If so, he would definitely go to hell. And this didn’t look like hell.

The second attempt to sit failed as well. But he lifted his upper body higher than the first time. Good progress. He had glanced at the pair of white wooden chairs by the opposite wall. Nothing else there. At least he wasn’t in prison. There would have been a metal toilet instead of a pair of chairs. If movies hadn’t laid, though.

The cold draft groomed his face. Paul turned his head in that direction. A woman in her mid-thirties stood in the open door. Finally, a living being.

“Look who has come back?” she said. Her face smiled at him. She didn’t wear the uniform. Or whatever nurses should wear. On the contrary, her legs were covered in jeans, and she wore an oversized plain black t-shirt. Her long blonde hair fell down on her shoulders and back.

She approached the bed and leaned over him. “How did you sleep?”

Paul took a breath to push it through his vocal cords. The only thing he could make was a thin shrieking sound.

“Don’t try to speak. Wait!” She left the room. After a few seconds, she came back, holding the glass of water with a straw in it.

“Drink a little of water. Your throat must be dry. You didn’t use it for several weeks.”

Paul sucked a mouthful of water and swallowed it. Week? Did she just say weeks? How many weeks?

“How... long?” Speaking hurt his throat.

“How long have you been staying in bed?”

Paul nodded.

“Three weeks.”

Three weeks? That was a fairly long nap!

“What...”

“What happened? You had a car accident,” she said.

A car accident? Not an accident, but the car accident? What the hell was she talking about? He didn’t remember even sitting in the car. Yes, he was at the party. If he had gotten drunk, he could have fallen from the tree or the roof. Or jumped under the bus or whatever. But a car accident? That didn’t make sense! He would never sit behind the steering wheel drunk. The idea of hurting someone would kill him. He needed to ask the doctor about this.

Paul sipped more water using the straw. The water moistened the tissue inside his mouth. It was pleasing.

“Tell me more, please,” he said.

“I don’t know where to start,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Three weeks ago, you were drinking at the party. Then you drove the car and hit the tree. You’re lucky that you’re alive.”

“I don’t drink and drive.” His voice was resolute, draining his energy. Then it kicked him. “Lucky? Why lucky?”

“You had a brain surgery due to internal bleeding in your brain. The doctors had to release the pressure inside your skull.”

A bondage. He had his head open. That was just unbelievable.

“Any damage?” he said.

She continued, “Not during the operation. But you didn’t wake up by yourself. Doctor Mitchell had to keep you in artificial sleep. He cut the medicaments yesterday evening. And now, you’re here.” She snorted and wiped away the tears from her eyes. Paul hadn’t even noticed she was crying. A strange behavior for a nurse. But he was impressed by it. She likes you.

“Anyway, doctor Mitchell will do some tests tomorrow.” She smiled again.

“What kind of tests?”

“I don’t know. He’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” A nurse should know. Never mind. “So, is it night right now? Or day? Or I’m in heaven?” He pushed his lips into a smile.

“It’s evening. Around seven o’clock in the evening. I know you just woke up, but I’ve gotta give you something to put you back to sleep.” She raised her finger. “But don’t worry! You’ll wake up in the morning.”

She wiped more tears from her eyes. “I won’t let you sleep any longer than necessary.”

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes, I am. I’m happy you’re back. Very happy. I’ve been praying all the time.” Her chin shook, and a stream of tears fell down her cheeks. She let out a loud sob and hugged him. “I’m so happy. So happy.”

Paul’s chest tightened. He didn’t understand. “Who are you?” he said, trying to release himself from her hug.

She pulled away from him. Then she frowned, rubbing her temple. This question evidently caught her off guard. “Who I am? What you mean who I am? I’m Lena.”

“Nice to meet you, Lena. I’m Paul.”

Lena pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it?”

“No. Why joke? I just introduced myself.”

“Hey! It is not funny! I like your jokes, but this isn’t a good time. Really, isn’t it.”

Paul summoned all his strength. “Look, I somehow don’t understand what is going on here, okay? You’re a nurse, all right? You don’t wear a uniform. Never mind. I can cope with it. You’re happy that I’m alive. I understand that. But you don’t need to hug me, okay?”

Lena put her hand on her cheeks, pushing her mouth into a circle, and she stood petrified. More tears welled up in her eyes.

“You don’t remember,” she whispered, “You don’t remember. My god, what we’re going to do?

You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?” His heart pounded.

She just stood there like a statue. Her eyes got so big he thought they would fall down her face.

“Tell me, for god sake!” His voice trembled.

She took a deep breath and, looking straight into his eyes, she whispered. “I’m your wife, Paul. I’m Lena Haddock, your wife.”