I woke up in the middle of a hospital, feeling almost non-existent. My body didn’t feel like mine — just a weight, heavy and hollow. My arms were pale and veiny, the skin thin enough to see blue rivers beneath. A needle pierced into me, feeding some clear liquid through a trembling tube. 

Needles. I hate needles. I looked away before nausea took me. 

A woman stood at the foot of my bed. I didn’t recognize her. Her eyes were deep-set and gray, ringed with exhaustion that didn’t look human. Her hair clung to her face in stringy strands, damp as if she’d just risen from water. There was something behind her eyes — something trying to remember what pity used to feel like. When she opened her mouth, I saw words form, but I heard nothing. Only the faint hum of lights. 

They say eyes are the window to the soul, but hers were boarded shut. 

The room around me was all yellowed walls and peeling paint. The fluorescent bulbs above buzzed like flies. The air was heavy with disinfectant, latex, and something sweet beneath it — like rot wrapped in sugar. I looked around for help, for life, for anything. There was no one.

Silence. 

Absolute silence. 

I stood, though my legs shook as if resisting the thought. The floor felt wrong — too soft, like stepping on something that could breathe. Fleshy. I stumbled toward the door, each step echoing in my skull. The hinges screamed as I pushed it open, then behind me — *slam.* 

I turned, heart thrashing, but the bed was empty. The IV still dripped. 

Then I saw her again, reflected faintly in the glass of a medicine cabinet — closer now. Her lips moved. I could almost hear it this time. A whisper. 

My throat went cold. 

And that’s when I realized the monitors weren’t beeping because they couldn’t. They’d been unplugged. 

The world around me flickered — once, twice — and then dimmed. The smell of death lingered.