Page 118 of Sawyer

Throat dry, I try to speak, only for my voice to sound like nothing more than a squeak.

“Shhh, now.” I can just barely make out his body as he walks over to me, and it takes everything inside of me to remain calm. He holds out my glasses for me, which I accept, still not trusting him.

Using my other hand, the one not connected to the tube, I slide my clean glasses onto my nose and focus. I’m lying in a bed in a white room that smells of bleach, and the doctor stands before me with a smile that I think he believes is genuine but looks more like a grimace.

“It’s interesting. You wear contacts, and yet you look at my IV as though it’s a foreign object.” He turns to a small table to pour a glass of water from a pitcher. There’s even ice in the pitcher. Setting it to the side, he crouches down so we’re at eye level. “Betas come up with so many wonderful inventions, don’t you think?”

What am I supposed to say to that?

“May I?” He reaches for my hand, the one without the tube, and he gives me a whole three seconds before he snatches it. “Look at that,” he says, pleased with himself. “Antibiotics.”

“What?” I croak out and look at my hand, mainly seeing smooth skin, save for the bite sitting in the middle of a circle. The skin around it is still raw and peeling. It looks awful, but it no longer hurts like it did.

“Oh yes, I forget that the council tries to keep science from the other designations.” He prods at the bite, his touch gentle, which confuses me. “Antibiotics assist the immune system, helping it fight off bacteria like that of the deadly spider, the nightcrawler.”

I was dying. Was.

“But see, this little tube I’ve placed in your vein pumps a special concoction right into you.” He’s so pleased with himself that it’s disturbing. “And look at you, almost back to normal.”

I lick my dry lips. “How long?”

“A few days.” He places my hand back on the bed, gently patting it before he rises to stand over me. “Now, Sawyer, the bag is empty.” He turns and pulls an empty bag back off a hook, detaching it from a tube, and tosses it in the trash. “I assume you’d like to get a shower, yes?”

I nod, feeling confused and disoriented. This isn’t at all what I expected. Not at all. I look around the room. There are no windows, and it’s primarily white painted brick walls. There’s a small table that looks like a desk and a chair in front of it. Both are sleek and modern. The tile floor is white, again, and doesn’t have a single stain.

It’s the large mirror on the other side of the room, however, that disturbs me, and it isn’t the only one. There are two, one across from me and one on the wall opposite the door—a heavy door with multiple locks and a little window.

It’s more like a prison than a room.

“Here, let me.” Doc steals my attention, crouching before me, lifting the edge of the tape with his fingernail. Without warning, and contrasting the gentle nature he’s emitted thus far, he rips it off. A tube pulls free of my skin, and blood spurts out, hitting me in the face. “I do love to see that spray.” He shudders in pleasure.

What the hell?

Still frozen to the bed, I stare at the man before me, trying to figure him out, but he’s like a broken man who’s been pieced together by tape and glue.

“The door remains open from nine to noon.” He balls up the tape and chucks it in the trash before turning back to me. “We serve lunch in the patient cafeteria from twelve to one. You’ll find it at the end of the hall. After that, you have some free time until two, when you must return to your room for daily observation.”

I tilt my head at that. My mind feels sluggish and cloudy.

“Don’t worry. It isn’t as scary as it sounds.” He smiles, the expression full of malice and cruelty that I can’t comprehend…yet. “After that, your door will open again, and you’ll be called for your evening evaluation. Do be prompt. It’s to make sure you are healing from that nasty spider bite.”

I open and close my mouth. I wanted to know what’s happening here, and I knew my best chances of survival from the bite involved coming here. Observation sounds ominous and wrong, but there’s only one way to find out what is going on—live it.

“Perfect.” He claps. “I see the resolution on your face. That will make this so much easier. Now, you have a toilet in here for emergencies, but there is a bathhouse just down the hall.”

My eyes fall to the toilet beside the door. I almost missed it. Long curtains hang from the ceiling, allowing a sliver of privacy. Those mirrors aren’t just simple standard mirrors, though, but ones that allow someone to see into my room.

Observation.

Ever so slowly, I sit up, my head spinning and causing me to gag.

“Try to take it easy, Sawyer. You have plenty of time to recover,” he says, but I can’t look at him to gauge what he really means. Not that I’d be able to anyway, because his expressions make absolutely no sense whatsoever. “I’ll be seeing you, Sawyer.”

His shiny black shoes clap on the floor as he walks out of the room. The door doesn’t make a sound as he opens it and leaves it ajar. I view all of this through my hair, where I keep my head bowed.

Focusing on my body and how I’m feeling, I note that I’m no longer wearing my own clothing but thin, tan pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt. The material is scratchy and uncomfortable, but the socks are warm and have little grips on the bottom.

Brushing my hair off my face, I slowly stand and try not to think about someone stripping off my clothing and changing me.

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