August Cox's Blog - Posts Tagged "first-chapter"
The Wrong Samantha - Chapter One
Chapter 1: Present
I pry open my eyes, sealed shut with wet and sticky mucus, to a blindingly white room and the overbearing smell of antiseptic. Everything feels like lead; heavy, hard to move, cold. The pounding in my head is excruciating and makes me want to close my eyes again. My throat and mouth feel like rough sandpaper, and it hurts to breathe as I painstakingly look around for some water; however, there's nothing in here but me. No bed, no blanket. The only thing to keep me company are the padded walls and the cold hard floor. I bring myself onto my elbows and my knees, feeling every bone beneath my ever-thinning body. I look down and see that my nails are jagged and short. Some of my nails are completely gone, leaving exposed sensitive skin. There is crusted blood around my nail beds, flakey and dark brownish red. My hair feels greasy and unkempt, borderline straggly, as I push it back behind my ears. I smell worse than the foulest body odor I’ve ever encountered. As I struggle to sit, I notice that my skin is now stretched over my hips and my leg hair is longer than I’ve ever let it grow. The scabs on my wrists look a few days old, swollen, and leaking yellow pus. Inflammation and irritation tell me that there is an infected injection site on my thigh as well... It feels as though my ribs are shattered as well as my skull. At least my back doesn’t feel as horrible as it once did, right after he tortured me. I can move now without screaming. Moving around results in my skin feeling so taut that I’m terrified my bones may spear my skin.
When I finally get into a sitting position, I can feel how my pelvis rests on the cement. It’s painful and I squeeze my eyelids shut to not show any fear, weakness, or anything else the Doctor can think to use against me. I rub my eyes to remove the gunk obstructing my vision in the hopes to see something of use in case the guards come back in. As my eyesight clears, I realize I’m in a change of clothes, again. I suppose these are more fitting for this hell, anyway. They took my shoes, my black running shorts, and my favorite white racerback tank and replaced it with shorts and a shirt when I first arrived. I don’t know what happened to me since the last time I was awake, and that makes my spine stiff with the thoughts of what-ifs.
I had notches to count days once. Where are those at? Is this even the same room? I hold my temples and try to concentrate. How long have I been stuck in this place? 6 months? A year? I'm not sure. I gave up counting days long ago because each time I would get my bearings, they would make me forget anyway. I stand up on weak knees, which buckle as I start to get upright. I fall and land on my wrist sending hot white pain to my senses and making me nauseous. I stifle my cry, not wanting the Doctor to bring any more needles near me. He’ll blame the fall on me, say I was being a danger to myself. I wonder how long I've been drugged for my legs to have felt like cooked noodles underneath of me. The drugs that they used left me with a terrible dry mouth. I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what I did to deserve this.
There’s nothing on the ceiling that will answer my questions, that’s what my teachers used to tell me. I close my eyes and hold my wrist tightly against my chest to ease the pain. Lucky for me, I'm in the only padded cell that's exactly like a bad movie: concrete floor, fluorescent lights, and walls without any seams. I suppose if I can't find the door this time, they won't have to deal with me banging on it.
The Wrong Samantha
I pry open my eyes, sealed shut with wet and sticky mucus, to a blindingly white room and the overbearing smell of antiseptic. Everything feels like lead; heavy, hard to move, cold. The pounding in my head is excruciating and makes me want to close my eyes again. My throat and mouth feel like rough sandpaper, and it hurts to breathe as I painstakingly look around for some water; however, there's nothing in here but me. No bed, no blanket. The only thing to keep me company are the padded walls and the cold hard floor. I bring myself onto my elbows and my knees, feeling every bone beneath my ever-thinning body. I look down and see that my nails are jagged and short. Some of my nails are completely gone, leaving exposed sensitive skin. There is crusted blood around my nail beds, flakey and dark brownish red. My hair feels greasy and unkempt, borderline straggly, as I push it back behind my ears. I smell worse than the foulest body odor I’ve ever encountered. As I struggle to sit, I notice that my skin is now stretched over my hips and my leg hair is longer than I’ve ever let it grow. The scabs on my wrists look a few days old, swollen, and leaking yellow pus. Inflammation and irritation tell me that there is an infected injection site on my thigh as well... It feels as though my ribs are shattered as well as my skull. At least my back doesn’t feel as horrible as it once did, right after he tortured me. I can move now without screaming. Moving around results in my skin feeling so taut that I’m terrified my bones may spear my skin.
When I finally get into a sitting position, I can feel how my pelvis rests on the cement. It’s painful and I squeeze my eyelids shut to not show any fear, weakness, or anything else the Doctor can think to use against me. I rub my eyes to remove the gunk obstructing my vision in the hopes to see something of use in case the guards come back in. As my eyesight clears, I realize I’m in a change of clothes, again. I suppose these are more fitting for this hell, anyway. They took my shoes, my black running shorts, and my favorite white racerback tank and replaced it with shorts and a shirt when I first arrived. I don’t know what happened to me since the last time I was awake, and that makes my spine stiff with the thoughts of what-ifs.
I had notches to count days once. Where are those at? Is this even the same room? I hold my temples and try to concentrate. How long have I been stuck in this place? 6 months? A year? I'm not sure. I gave up counting days long ago because each time I would get my bearings, they would make me forget anyway. I stand up on weak knees, which buckle as I start to get upright. I fall and land on my wrist sending hot white pain to my senses and making me nauseous. I stifle my cry, not wanting the Doctor to bring any more needles near me. He’ll blame the fall on me, say I was being a danger to myself. I wonder how long I've been drugged for my legs to have felt like cooked noodles underneath of me. The drugs that they used left me with a terrible dry mouth. I stare up at the ceiling and wonder what I did to deserve this.
There’s nothing on the ceiling that will answer my questions, that’s what my teachers used to tell me. I close my eyes and hold my wrist tightly against my chest to ease the pain. Lucky for me, I'm in the only padded cell that's exactly like a bad movie: concrete floor, fluorescent lights, and walls without any seams. I suppose if I can't find the door this time, they won't have to deal with me banging on it.
The Wrong Samantha
