Maddi's Writing Library discussion

I woke up to burning lungs.

A pitch of complete darkness welcomes me.

My laboured breaths felt too distant as if they weren't mine, as if I'm being forced to breathe, as if my lungs are too tired to inhale.

My heart—holed—I couldn't feel it beating, hammering against my constricted chest like it did the last time I remembered.

𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

I don't remember where I am, what I'm doing. I don't remember when the last time was.

I don't remember what I was doing before feeling like this. Or if I was even feeling anything until this very minute.

I didn't feel the need to open my eyes. Too focused on my burning lungs and finding my heartbeat. My mind preparing to hunt down my senses.

All that's felt is being pushed against something. Something soft. Too soft. Embracing my body As if I've always been here.

I don't want to think. I don't. But that's not me. I can't—I can't not think.

I can feel it now. I can feel my body. My very stiff, very heavy body.

I breathe in the sterile air. Air that is supposed to be filling my lungs with life.

Only, it doesn't.

I try, keep trying. Once, twice, thrice, until I'm tired, too tired to tired to try.

I'm sick. Sick of this uncanny sensation in my chest. Chest that is moving, moving in the rhythm it's been moving for as long as I remember.

I'm focused—too focused on my lungs so I don't think about my heart. The heart that was supposed to be slashed. But it's not. I know Because I feel it now, the beats, I hear them, but they're foreign. Too foreign.

The air around me shifts—an odd, conditioned coolness I can’t quite place. 

Footsteps. Muffled. But clear—too clear. Not distant, but close.

I feel the vibrations before I even hear them... Bare feet. The sound of flesh against the sterile floor—a sound that tells me everything I need to know.

He’s not wearing shoes.

Not normal.

Not ordinary.

The person's probably an experienced thief. That was my first thought.

My body is paralyzed, every part of it. I'm pressed down against an unnecessarily soft mattress. The blanket—too thick. Too clingy.

Until I feel the air around me. It's conditioned. Not my room. Or my house.

I felt thick covers draped around me. A familiar scent. A familiar scent I can't seem to recognize.

Until it hit me.

𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳.
I'm breathing through ventilator. My hands are sore. I've been injected. Probably with glucose.

I can't open my eyes. They're too heavy to be lifted. I can't move a finger. The blanket seemed to have turned into rock. All I can do is hear and think.

I'm in a hospital room.

And he's not in a hospital room to steal.

He's here to 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 .