Page 37 of When the Lights Come On
Paige
ISOLATION: A recording environment optimized to absorb unwanted background noise
I can’t move,and everything hurts.
A heavy darkness presses down on me, obscuring all sight and sound, the weight of it so suffocating I can barely breathe, never mind move my body.
I can stillfeelmy body. The aches that run so deep they seem to be coming from my very bones roll through me in waves. They crash over me again and again, blocking out all other thoughts until they subside and give me a few seconds of respite between surges.
I need to escape. I need to move. I need to leave this place, but my arms won’t respond. My legs are bricks where they’re stretched out in front of me, too heavy to lift.
I’m trapped.
Then something starts brushing across my chest, small and scuttling like dozens of tiny insects.
I try to scream. No sound comes out.
The pitter-patter along my skin continues. They’re going to bite me soon. I know it.
Get off. Get off. Get off.
I try to shake my head, and finally, a part of me responds. I shake it harder and harder, thrashing from side to side as my voice finally roars to life.
“GET OFF!”
My eyes fly open, and I find myself in a bed.
My bed.
There’s just enough light to make out the shape of a man bent over me, adjusting the blankets tucked across my chest. I start to scream, and he lifts his head, looking straight at me with eyes gone wide in alarm.
My scream becomes a strangled cry of confusion that dies out as I splutter for words.
“YOUSSEF?” I shout at the top of my lungs once I can do more than stutter. “WHAT THE FUCK?”
“Ah, you’re awake.”
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
I try to sit up, but a wave of pain so intense it makes my stomach twist with nausea forces me to lay back down on my pillow.
Youssef winces. “Sorry. I was fixing your blankets. You got all tangled up, and I didn’t want you to hurt your arm.”
“MY ARM—” I cut myself off with a gasp when I look down and see the sling. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”
“Okay, let’s just try to calm down and—”
I don’t want to calm down. I want to know what the fuck is going on.
So I tell him just that.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? WHY ARE YOU HERE? WHAT HAPPENED?”
“Paige.” He takes a step back from the bed and looks down at me. “Do you think maybe you could stop screaming? Just consider it.”
I glare at him, but I do take a minute to consider things—primarily the state of my arm. I examine the sling and the cast-type thing around my hand, echoes of the pain from sitting up still shooting through my shoulder.
A flash of images starts to emerge in my mind.
