Our little tragedy awakens.
Not with a gasp, or some dramatic flourish you see in the movies, but with a slow, pathetic fade-in to the land of the living.
Her world was a blurry mess of white. An assault of brightness that made her head ache.
'...white.'
'so bright...'
A sound. A steady, rhythmic beeping that was starting to get on her nerves.
'...beep...'
'...beep...'
Her eyes, gummy with sleep or something worse, finally managed to focus just enough to make out shapes. A ceiling, made of sterile white tiles. A bag of clear liquid hanging from a metal pole, a thin tube snaking down from it to a dull prickle in the crook of her arm.
A hospital.
The realization didn't bring relief. It brought a surge of pure, ice-cold panic that was more potent than any drug.
'no... no no no…'
'hospital... i can't pay for this...'
