Fracture || Xmen

4

The first thing that hits me is the stark smell of antiseptic, aggressively sterile, the kind that screams hospital or some overly sanitized hellhole. Then there's this dry, almost scalding sensation clawing at my throat, overwhelming, making every other sense feel dull in comparison. My eyes, heavy and uncooperative, manage a brief rebellion against the weight of my eyelids, only to be ambushed by the hostile blaze of bright white lights overhead. It feels like the universe's way of kicking me while I'm down.

The sound of movement jolts me, every muscle tensing, my mind instantly painting targets on any unknown presence. I crack my eyes open just a sliver, paranoid that whoever's creeping around might catch me off-guard. My gaze, honed by years of necessity, darts towards the source of the noise. As my vision begrudgingly adjusts, cutting through the glare, I spot a man donned in a white coat.

His attire nearly camouflages with the oppressive brightness of the room, prompting me to question the sanity of anyone who could operate in such blinding conditions. As he turns, possibly in my direction, I snap my eyes shut, a trick too well-practiced from nights spent feigning sleep to avoid Michael's wrath. Not that playing possum always worked. More often than not, he'd just see it as an invitation to start an early morning beatdown.

My mind is a racetrack, thoughts speeding to piece together how I ended up in this unknown setting. Panic nudges at my heart as flashes of recent memories bombard me. The horrific sight of Michael's demise, the chaotic journey to the bus stop, the unsettling introduction to Death, and the absurd intervention of those spandex-clad freaks. Death suddenly turning on me. The sudden appearance of the wannabe superheroes taking him down... and then, a void.

I'm clueless about my current location, but the fleeting look I managed suggested more of a lab vibe than a hospital's. Curiosity piqued again, I risk another glance, noting the white-coat man now preoccupied on the room's opposite side, still blissfully unaware of my wakefulness. My eyes scan the room, desperate for an escape route, and they find solace in the sight of an iron door. That door symbolizes freedom, a concept that feels both foreign and desperately needed. The challenge now is figuring out how to slip past Dr. White Coat because something tells me he's not exactly going to roll out the welcome mat for me to stroll out.

Surveying my surroundings with the caution of a cat stalking its prey, I keep my movements minimal, a subconscious effort to remain under the radar of Mr. White Coat. My gaze, sharp and calculating, lands on a small surgical knife, its blade gleaming ominously from a metal table a short distance away. A flicker of hope sparks within me as I realize it's within arm's reach, assuming I can stretch without drawing attention.

With the man's back still turned, I carefully shift, aiming to bridge the gap between me and the makeshift weapon. The immediate jolt of pain as I move is a brutal reminder of the beating I took, the echoes of which are still very much alive and kicking within my battered frame. Gritting my teeth to silence any involuntary sound, I mentally curse the memories and the fresh wounds they've nurtured.

Jaw clenched, I maneuver again, inching my body closer to the table's edge, the plush surface beneath me offering little comfort against the anticipation of pain. This time, I'm prepared; I extend my arm fully, the discomfort a dull echo as my experienced fingers wrap around the knife with an ease born of necessity. In my attempt to return to my original unconscious position, my elbow collides with my bruised side, a sharp throb of pain eliciting a gasp from me—a sound so faint, I'd argue its existence. Yet, to my dismay, the man's posture tightens at my immediate intake of breath. As if... no way. There's no way he could've heard that.

With the knife now concealed within my sleeve, I lie back down, a statue of feigned unconsciousness, while internally, I'm a maelstrom of anxiety and anticipation. The sound of his approaching footsteps is a countdown to the inevitable, each step amplifying the tension coiling within me.