ADDICTED

33

JAMES

Beep. 

Beep. 

Beep.

My eyes snapped open while a shallow breath escaped me. The edges of my vision was crowded with darkness I couldn't see through. I was looking through a narrow, unlit tunnel, the end of which was so bright it was painful to stare at.

Breathing deeply through my nose, the biting smell of rubbing alcohol rolled up my nostrils and down my trachea. I practiced opening my eyes several times before they adjusted to the light. After a few minutes of focused breathing, I could finally see the room around me.

A window concealed behind long, vertical blinds was cut into the wall to my left. My eyes slowly traversed to the wall directly ahead of me, which featured a table with glass jars and metal instruments. Above the table was a motivational poster. 

Believe In Yourself

My head turned to view the right side of the room. Directly beside me stood a glowing monitor screen tracking my vitals. As I stared uncomprehendingly at the digits, the numbers escalated and the chirps came faster.

Sharp pain sprouted between my temples. Grimacing, I found a memory painted in the darkness behind my eyelids. 

My sister lying between thin, white sheets, her skin pale and eyes flat. A styrofoam plate with gray mush and pink jello. The shiny white band around her bony wrist.

I groaned at the discomfort incited by the memory. 

"Glad to see you're awake," spoke a voice.

Jumping in surprise, my eyes flew open. A middle-aged man in dark green medical scrubs stood to my right. He reached over to the lamp on the bedside table and flipped on its light. I tried not to shrink away from the illumination. 

"Do you remember why you're here, James?" he asked.

I stared at the man while scrambling my brain. Was I supposed to know who this was? 

The sharp pang in my head struck again, and this time I couldn't fight the flinch.

"Are you in pain?" the man asked. He tapped on the monitor and checked the various tubes sticking out of me.

Clearing my throat, I opened my eyes and managed a raspy, "Where am I injured?"

He paused to examine my face. My stomach rolled.

"Your legs and lower back suffered the most," he told me.

My breath caught in my throat. I instantly assumed the worst—that I would never be able to use my legs again; my back was broken and I was paralyzed; or, perhaps I lost an eye or an ear or had some debilitating deformity.

"Our surgeon team restored the tissues where they could," he went on. "You will be able to return to normal soon enough, but a leave of rest is in order. We can't risk you ripping stitches or tearing any more tendons."

"Normal?" I asked, my voice a whisper.

"Yes. You can return to work in a few weeks." The man tapped on the monitor a few more times and then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. "How are you feeling, James?"

"Nauseous," I said. "Tired."

Talking triggered more pain in my skull, so I closed my eyes and focused on my breaths. Fatigue pulled at my weak body and mind. I could feel myself slipping away again.

"That's to be expected," the man said. "I'm going to sedate you for a few more hours." His words were fading away. "I'm sure by then your visitors will be back and we'll have a nice, warm meal waiting . . ."