Hidden Under the Bed

I was procrastinating the other day and started to look through a file on my computer that I had labelled, UNDER THE BED. This folder had numerous folders that contained finished manuscripts, story ideas, and beginnings. Many times I'll just write a short beginning to get the idea down and then abandon it for whatever reason.

I wrote this one in September 2008, and I simply labeled it as Nanobot story:

Prequel

Death would have been the easy way out.

But, of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to take the easy way out.  Nope, I had to wake up in hell and rejoin the living.

Life sucked. 

I hazed in and out of consciousness for an undetermined amount of time.  Surfacing and sinking, only to be forced to surface once more--the never ending cycle of drowning, except I wasn’t allowed to suck in water to complete my death. 

Euphoria and lack of pain soon led to body aches I never thought possible.  Hell, even my throat hurt.  Originally, I thought it was because I had been screaming in my nightmares, but I soon learned it was due to the tube they jammed down my throat and taped to my face.  I was alive, but only due to modern technology.  A machine pumped oxygen in and out of my lungs filling them with air, forcing me to live. 

I was aware of hazy entities that came in and checked various tubes jammed into places that shouldn’t have tubes jammed in them, or to type on the computer near my head, or to jab something into my IV tubing. 

The next time I awoke, it was different.  Instead of floating around in vague awareness, I was awake, sort of.  Voices murmured from across the room—both male, one of which was really pissed off.  So, of course, I tried my damnedest to eavesdrop, which was damn hard to do with the oxygen hissing in my ear and the freakin’ monitors beeping.

“Dammit, Doc!  It’s been six months already.  When the hell is she waking up?”

He was answered by a low murmur.  Damn doctors, always were worrying about the patient confidentiality issue.  It was just me they were talking about. . .

Shit.  What happened?

My memories were sketchy at best.  But I did remember the grinding and moaning of steel as it tore and crunched from the impact.  A car wreck.  And I’ve been in the hospital for six months?  What happened to Dan and Elena?

Oh.  My.  God.  I knew without a doubt they were dead.  My life, my reason to live—gone.  Grief ran through me.  If there had been any fluid in my body, I would have cried.  Alarms started going off next to my bed as my emotions spiked my blood pressure and heart rate.

A nurse stepped up to my bedside, flipping switches to reset the monitors, as she spoke nonsense in a soothing monotone voice.  She pulled a syringe out of her pocket and injected the intravenous port in my hand.  Lethargy shot through my veins as the drug took over.

I like this woman, I thought as I dropped out of consciousness.

So what do you all think?