“Who are you?” I scream at my reflection. I’m not sure if the words are meant for whomever may be watching me from the other side of the mirror or for myself. “Let me out of here!”
I punch the mirror again, but the result is the same. I run back to the door, pound on it, and scream for someone to answer me, but there is no response. With a growl, I turn and grab the edge of the computer table. I fling it up into the air, surprised by how effortless the action is. Sparks fly from the monitor as it crashes to the floor. Taking hold of another rolling tray full of medical equipment, I pick it up and throw it against the wall.
I look back and forth as the wreckage settles to the floor and the echoing sounds of the table’s contents hitting the floor subside. My heart is pounding and my lungs ache. I focus on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Grasping the legs of the nearby rolling chair, I slam it against the mirror again and again as I scream. I hear a cracking sound as pain ripples up my arm, but I don’t stop.
“Let me out of here! Who are you? What do you want from me?”
The chair seat breaks away from the legs, bounces off the mirror and lands a few feet away from me. I keep slamming the remnants of the chair against the glass until a sharp hissing sound catches my attention. I glance at the ceiling above the door. Tendrils of yellowish gas flow from a thin air duct. Pressing my back to the far corner, up against the mirror, I take a deep breath and hold it as long as I can. The gas quickly fills the small room. There’s nowhere to go. I have to breathe.
Darkness overcomes me as I slump to the floor.
I’m on my knees. The ground below me is dry and cracked. There’s a trowel in my hand, and I use it to turn the dirt, but there’s no moisture to be found. Even the weeds have given up.
I wake with a start. I’m back on the bed, strapped down. The room has been put back in order, and there is no evidence of my tirade. I lift my head slightly and grunt as I push up with my shoulder against the restraints.
“Relax.”
There is a brief, light touch on the inside of my left arm. I tilt my head backward toward the sound of a soft, feminine voice, and our gazes connect.
Her eyes are a soft, indistinct color between brown and green. The lashes are long and free of mascara. Her skin is pale and smooth, and her hair is light brown, straight, and pulled up into a bun at the back of her head. She wears a long white coat with an unfamiliar insignia embroidered on the breast pocket.
As soon as I see her, I sink back against the bed. I can’t look away from her even as she drops her gaze from mine and focuses on a small tablet computer in her hand. My fingers flex automatically. I can feel a bandage around my fingers. There’s a deep ache on two of the knuckles of my right hand, but the pain barely registers.
I need to touch her.
“What do you remember?” Her voice relaxes me further. The soft tone, the inflection—everything about it—fills me with the need to just listen.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s asked me a question.
“Nothing,” I finally respond.
“That’s all right,” she assures me. “That’s normal.”
Normal. The word floats around in my head trying to find some kind of meaning.
“How can that be normal?” I ask.
“It’s normal, given what you’ve been through.”
She places two fingers against my wrist and looks at one of the monitors on the cart beside the bed. Her fingers feel cool against my skin, and I try to turn my wrist to grab her hand, but the restraints are in the way. I close my eyes, and my mind focuses solely on her touch.
She retracts her hand, and I open my eyes to watch her tap the tablet’s screen.
What have I been through?
“Was I in an accident?”
“No.” She smiles gently as she focuses on my eyes. The look sends warmth through my limbs as my pulse increases. I feel my cock throb and begin to fill with blood. I swallow hard, still unable to stop myself from staring at her.
It’s not that she is overwhelmingly beautiful. She’s attractive, without a doubt. She has pleasant features, beautiful eyes, and a slender body from what I can see beneath the lab coat. There are wisps of hair touching her neck and cheek, and I want to smooth them back into her carefully placed bun. She’s tall—at least five-seven—with long legs I automatically imagine wrapped around my shoulders. But there is nothing exceptional that sets her apart from any other woman.
“What happened to me?”
“You’re a volunteer.” She removes her gaze from me and goes back to the tablet.
“Volunteer for what?” The answer to the question itself strikes me as unimportant. I just want her to look at me again, to speak to me again.