By Frances Luévano
The sharp sting of rubbing alcohol hitting my nose is the first thing I feel. The second is the light above me, burning flames of blues and whites into my eyes. It flickers every once in a while and hisses out an energized buzz.
I’m lying down. I don’t remember doing that.
Noises too muffled and distant for me to make out create a confusing ambience, filling my head with so many unknown distractions that I can barely get a thought of mine in edgewise.
I’m not supposed to be here. Wherever here is. I don’t want to think hospital, but what else could it be?
I lift my head up a little. The room is obscured, washed out in the residual rings of light freckling my vision. My head gets heavy and falls back before it wears off. Before I can see where I am. A thin pillow catches me.
I hear voices. Becoming clearer. Closer.
“She’s been like this for how long?”
The light above me bleaches my consciousness back into a dull nothingness.
Frances Luévano is a science-fiction/fantasy writer and playwright based near the Rocky Mountains. She is an enthusiast of odd and forgotten things and enjoys Wes Anderson films. When not in her creative nook, Frances can be found in Thai restaurants and craft stores.