All your dreams will come to life. So will all your nightmares. ― After narrowly surviving the car crash that killed his best friend, Andrew King is left to grapple with his loss and nurse a traumatic brain injury. With his injury comes a crippl...
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THE FACE OF THE young man swam in Andrew's vision. Cold and unconcerned eyes peered at him, eyes to match the room around him. He raised a blue gloved hand, waving it at Andrew as if to get his attention.
"Can you hear me?"
Andrew nodded, and the movement sent pangs of pain shooting across the sides of his head.
"Can you tell me about yourself?"
There was another man behind him with a tall and slinky frame, and he looked at Andrew with shimmering, interested eyes.
"My name is Andrew," Andrew said listlessly.
"Good. Andrew what?"
"Andrew King."
The young man nodded, writing something into the pad of paper he was balancing on his knee. "Do you know where you are, Andrew?"
Andrew's eyes glazed over the features of the small room. He was sitting on a thin mattress. The room smelled heavily of alcohol and detergent, and beside the gloved man was a small bedside tray covered with medical tools.
"A hospital?"
That answer must have been wrong, judging by the way his interviewer turned to look at the man standing beside him. Andrew studied the older man, and in the harsh white light of the room he could see a jagged hole in the front of the man's button down shirt. It looked like a bullet hole.
Andrew's breaths began to get shallower and quicker. This was not a hospital, and he was beginning to get the sinking feeling that this was not a place he'd like to be.
The man standing in the back gave the younger man a quiet nod, slipping out of the room.
Andrew kept cautious eyes on the blond man sitting in front of him, his heart rate continuing to climb as the man fiddled with a syringe in his gloved hands.
"I'm going to give you something to make you feel better, okay?"
Andrew shook his head. "No. I feel okay."
The man's lips set into an unfortunate line, a line that pitied Andrew for thinking he had a choice. A line that was only partially apologetic for what was to come.
He spoke into an object resembling a walkie talkie that rested on his hip.
"Zone 3. Yes, hi." His eyes, blue and icy and unfeeling, rested on Andrew. "I'm going to need some help with subject restraint."
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