Page 37 of Fixation
What’s in that IV bag, then?
Panic pushes against my ribs, and I ball my hands into fists. I let out a relieved sigh when my fingers move.
I’m not numb.
Whatever drips into my veins isn’t a sedative. That has to mean something.
Things can’t be that bad if I’m fully functioning. If my limbs work, I’m capable of leaving whenever I want. It means I am in a hospital.
Maybe they called my emergency contact, Dad, and he insisted they put me in one of their private wings?
Maybe.
Another tremor takes me by surprise. My teeth click again.
Every muscle in my body aches.
I’ll call a nurse or my parents to get me out of here when I’m better. Just a bit longer.
I don’t have to rush if I’m in the hospital.
Are you really in a hospital, though?
Am I?
A sense of dread has my skin prickling.
This room is too dark to be a hospital room.
Too silent.
Other than my chattering teeth and the constant drip of the IV, I don’t hear anyone outside. No footsteps. No voices. No beeping sounds or rolling beds.
I turn my gaze to the side, searching for a window again. For a door.
For a nurse rushing in to check my vitals.
Nothing.
Another thorough look at the walls, and no, this place isn’t right. These two industrial floor lamps lining the walls on either side of me, they’re wrong.
Where are the overhead lights?
Where the hell am I?
The more I think about it, the faster my heart rate increases. My breaths are laden. Lips parched.
No. This isn’t a hospital room, I’m sure of that now.
I’m in someone’s basement.
It looks nearly identical to my own basement, I realize.
This isn’t my home, either. When I moved in, I added a personal touch to the space where I do the laundry.
Eight sconces shed warm light on the closed space, except for the two small windows that I do offer. The ones that provide a view of the street.
A long wooden table is placed in the center for me to fold my clothes. I leave my laundry basket on it, right there, next to the speaker where I play old rock songs.
