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I survived.
* * *
I have never hada fear of hospitals or needles. They are there to take away pain and make everything better.
The scent of disinfectant reminds me of my years of study, and of my lab.
It only takes five days for my mind to snap permanently back into my body. It shows my fortitude, the psychologist by my bedside tells me, while she offers me a smile carefully calibrated not to send me into another bout ofdisassociation.They didn't expect me to pull through for at least another week.“If at all”remains unspoken, but it's as heavy in the air as her tuberose perfume.
I think her name is Dr. Muller. I remember her cloying floral scent and her soothing voice during some of my lucid moments over the past few days. And her tortoise-shell glasses.
I touch a hand to my own glasses. I don't remember when they were placed on the bridge of my nose, or who did it. It feels like so long since the world was anything but a blur. They took my sight first.
“Addie?” Dr. Muller’s voice breaks through the sucking sound fraying at the edges of my hospital room. “Are you still with me, honey?”
"Dr. Thompson." My voice is creaky—barely more than a whisper. I clear my throat, forcing my mind to focus. “Dr. Thompson. Please.”
"Oh. Of course, Dr. Thompson." Her smile turns indulgent. “Do you need a moment? We can continue at another time, when you are stronger.”
When I am stronger.
For a moment, I am back in that horrible bunker. Cold and weak andsmall.There were times—a lot of times—when I forgot what it felt like to be strong.
I feel it again now—that sucking sensation, the heavy lethargy in my limbs, telling me I am just a mouse in a lion’s den, too weak to fight back.
I am so tired.
I nearly surrender this time. My mouth is trying to shape the words, to tell this kindly medical professional that I need to sleep—that I can’t face this now. Not yet.Please, not yet.
But I can’t. In a moment of clarity, I know what’s going to happen if I do. She will smile at me, tell meof course, honey.Perhaps pat my arm, before she writes more notes on my chart about how traumatized I am.Speak softly—patient broken beyond repair.
If I let that happen, I will never escape that bunker. I will always be this… this crippledthing,stuck in hospital beds and surrounded by soothing voices and pitying professionals.
Sleeping won’t take away what was done to me.
I shudder on reflex, my hand moving to my neck without conscious thought. Instead of ripped flesh, I find gauze.
Soon my body will be fully healed, and the only weakness that will remain is whatever I allow to fester.
I’m no mouse. I refuse to be.
“I’m fine.” This time I manage to speak without raspy weakness, only needing to clear my throat once. “How long until I can leave?”
Dr. Muller blinks once behind her tortoiseshells. “I… would not recommend you think about leaving anytime soon, Dr. Thompson. You will need to focus on your emotional recovery. The trauma you sustained—”
I wave her off. “I amfine.Now, I assume you have orders to alert a commanding officer that I’m awake? I would like you to do that now, please. And if you would send in a doctor too? I need an overview of any medications needed after discharge.”
“Dr. Thompson,” she protests, voice still mild. Overbearing.
“Now. Please.” My smile reflects no warmth.
Dr. Muller hesitates for another second, but eventually dips her head in a nod and leaves.
Silence fills the room once she’s gone. It lets me feel how cold I am—something I hadn’t noticed while she was talking at me.
I scan my surroundings, making sure not to look directly at the chair by the door, and notice a stack of neatly folded blankets on another chair next to the window.
With a sigh of relief, I push my covers off and swing my feet over the edge of the bed, but a painful tug on my hand makes me grit out a curse. I forgot about the IV.
