Ansell E. Cordell - Room 7
Ever since that night in the ICU, Ansell had been vaguely aware of something going terribly wrong, but that's as far as his feelings went. Things never cleared up, got better, or made a lick of sense. He was lost, most likely in himself, sensations on the edge of his consciousness and voices nothing more than a whisper among the static of his jumbled thoughts. Ansell assumed this is what a coma felt like.
His mind made attempts to make sense of a world he couldn't see or hardly feel anymore, his dreams using what was left of his imagination. Most of the time, Ansell's dreams were awkward, and frankly uncomfortable. Several of his dreams were spent in a surreal bird cage, swaddled in blankets and hung upside down, weird spotlights with no source shining down on him.
His head burned, not from the lights that probably didn't exist. Ansell couldn't make sense of any of it. He wished he could, though.
In lieu of anything else, Ansell thought about his family, and tried to listen for them when they came around. When they showed, it was one of the numerous times Ansell hoped that it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him.
He yearned for them, body aching to feel their touch, head straining go pay attention to the outside world, inner one be damned. For all his exertion, he didn't notice them. Way back when, Ansell used to hear them every other day. Now, he heard nothing.
That hurt more than anything. He felt like crying, although that probably wouldn't work, considering he was comatose and having a good cry wouldn't help him. Regardless, he cried, or at least tried to. There was a ache somewhere in his chest, that oh so familiar burn in his head came back. Then light, agonizing and bright, pain spreading as fast as the light was growing.
The realization that he just opened his eyes took a moment to dawn on Ansell. His eyes burned, a wetness on his face that let him know he was crying, that he was still alive. He blinked, the crane of his neck stopped by the tension in his muscles, teary eyes darting around a room that looked nothing like the one he was admitted to. From the angle he was propped up at, Ansell saw a device on his wrist, some kind of medical bracelet. Bending his fingers to his palm to try and touch the bracelet, Ansell hissed at the immediate cramp in his arm.
Footsteps, slow and resounding in the room registered in his mind. Looking up from his odd bracelet, Ansell stared into the face of a copper haired woman, her face wrinkled in her age, the smile on her lips smoothening her skin.
"Please try to calm down," she began, slowly, yet a hint of nervousness was in her tone. "You'll be okay, and you'll be able to sign again once you start moving around." Had she been alerted to his condition? Who was she, and how did she know that? "My name is Dottie, the doctor will be here soon to explain everything to you." She laid a hand on his hand, her nimble fingers lying his flat on the bed.
"Try to relax, dear. You're in good hands."