Day Sixteen by Tammie Painter

Author:Tammie Painter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction, thriller, supernatural suspense
Publisher: Daisy Dog Media

28 - TRAPPED

MOIRE AWOKE TO a groggy haze. The view when she tried to open her eyes was like looking through ancient leaded glass made dirty from centuries of grime. She blinked a few times, expecting to see her bedroom once her eyes focused, expecting to come back to the land of the living and recall yet another odd dream. She’d turn over and Neil would be beside her telling her he didn’t want the baby either.

But that wasn’t how it played out.

Moire pushed herself up. Even with her eyes still bleary, she instantly realized she wasn’t in her own bed. The futon mattress at home didn’t give, while the thing she was on swallowed her hand like quicksand when she pressed against it. She shifted and hit her wrist on a bar at the edge of the bed. Not believing what her half-awake eyes were seeing, she ran her hand along the cold metal.

A hospital bed? Why was she in a hospital bed?

Moire’s heart leapt with pure delight at the thought, the hope, that she’d been admitted to the hospital because she’d miscarried. But the joy was short-lived when she realized there was nothing between her legs. She had no expertise in the matter, but she assumed a miscarriage would bring a fair amount of blood that would need to be sopped up with a pad. There was no pad, and there was no sticky blood coagulating at her crotch.

So why was she here? She slumped back, her eyes and head finally cleared. Well, mostly cleared. She’d been at Neil’s desk. She recalled the squish and squeak of the leather chair and the rush of air as she spun around in it. She also had a vague memory of boxes on a calendar and of a syringe — memories that were like having a word on the tip of her tongue, but being unable to get it out.

When she looked up from the strange bed, someone in the hall was striding past her room. It was just an orderly, but his closely shorn head and the similarity of the scene snapped Moire’s memory on like a light at a surprise party. The memory of what had been written on Neil’s calendar, the bald man walking down the hall, her screaming, then nothing.

The shock of the memories flooding in put Moire’s senses on high alert. She now picked up sounds from outside her room. The steady hum of machines. The babbling of someone who sounded like they were talking through a mouth full of spit. The whining mumble of another person. The childish demand of a man not wanting a bath. And the soothing yet bordering on impatient voices of what she assumed were nurses.

Moire fought back the panic. She was in the loony bin. She was in the wing of the hospital everyone avoided going near on their lunchtime walks. The wing that sat far out of the way of normal foot traffic. The wing that donors and board members rarely visited, and the public tended to forget about.

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