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Only the beginning. Wrote it 5 minutes ago.
He woke up, in the bed. His memory was a turbulence of confusion. Where was he? Who was he? Why couldn’t he move?
He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he was John. That’s right, John. John Patterson. He heaved a sigh. He knew his name at least. But why couldn’t he move? His vision was blurry, his eyes itchy. The light hurt them. He squinted and made out some of his surroundings. He was lying down on a white bed, in a white room, in white clothes, not his. They were bed clothes he guessed. A heart monitor was beside him, and so was some other medical equipment, but he couldn’t make out what it was. There was a drip in his left arm though, but it may have well not have been there, as he couldn’t feel it. He closed his eyes. He slept.
Fractured and panicked dreams whirled around his head as he slept. The world spun. Voices rose in a clamour, and became and overwhelming babble of noise which he flinched and struggled to get away from. Laughter came in huge peels, vicious patronising laughter that sounded like it came from the mouth of a madman. It was like he was in a sort of semi hell, between one state and the next, stuck in limbo.
He woke.
There were people, people there. Walking. Moving. Talking. He strained his ears, picking up fragments of conversation.
“The subject is well.”
“When will we begin phase two?”
“Tomorrow.”
A crash.
“Jesus Christ, be careful with that you fool.”
He saw someone approach, silhouetted against the white black ground. They were dressed in white and holding a syringe. The syringe manoeuvred towards his neck.
He slept.
He woke up, in the bed. His memory was a turbulence of confusion. Where was he? Who was he? Why couldn’t he move?
He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he was John. That’s right, John. John Patterson. He heaved a sigh. He knew his name at least. But why couldn’t he move? His vision was blurry, his eyes itchy. The light hurt them. He squinted and made out some of his surroundings. He was lying down on a white bed, in a white room, in white clothes, not his. They were bed clothes he guessed. A heart monitor was beside him, and so was some other medical equipment, but he couldn’t make out what it was. There was a drip in his left arm though, but it may have well not have been there, as he couldn’t feel it. He closed his eyes. He slept.
Fractured and panicked dreams whirled around his head as he slept. The world spun. Voices rose in a clamour, and became and overwhelming babble of noise which he flinched and struggled to get away from. Laughter came in huge peels, vicious patronising laughter that sounded like it came from the mouth of a madman. It was like he was in a sort of semi hell, between one state and the next, stuck in limbo.
He woke.
There were people, people there. Walking. Moving. Talking. He strained his ears, picking up fragments of conversation.
“The subject is well.”
“When will we begin phase two?”
“Tomorrow.”
A crash.
“Jesus Christ, be careful with that you fool.”
He saw someone approach, silhouetted against the white black ground. They were dressed in white and holding a syringe. The syringe manoeuvred towards his neck.
He slept.
Insane Bartender wrote:
> I'm assuming I'm correct when I say that this reads ike you started
> with the idea of someone waking in a hospital, tried to take it
> further and just gave up?
Damn he's good.
> I'm assuming I'm correct when I say that this reads ike you started
> with the idea of someone waking in a hospital, tried to take it
> further and just gave up?
Damn he's good.
Yeah, it was okay.
Was a little bitty and the 'waking up in lab / hospital / mental institute is hardly original.
You'd have to write some more before I could really pass any judgements.
Was a little bitty and the 'waking up in lab / hospital / mental institute is hardly original.
You'd have to write some more before I could really pass any judgements.
I'm assuming I'm correct when I say that this reads ike you started with the idea of someone waking in a hospital, tried to take it further and just gave up?
Then you should have deleted it and started again:)
Not your best effort, even if it is just the beginning. Seems very bitty to read as I crashed from one sentence to the next and 'everything seemed white, the room, bed and even the clothes I was wearing' would read better than the sentence white room, white etc.
Not your best effort, even if it is just the beginning. Seems very bitty to read as I crashed from one sentence to the next and 'everything seemed white, the room, bed and even the clothes I was wearing' would read better than the sentence white room, white etc.
Only the beginning. Wrote it 5 minutes ago.
He woke up, in the bed. His memory was a turbulence of confusion. Where was he? Who was he? Why couldn’t he move?
He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he was John. That’s right, John. John Patterson. He heaved a sigh. He knew his name at least. But why couldn’t he move? His vision was blurry, his eyes itchy. The light hurt them. He squinted and made out some of his surroundings. He was lying down on a white bed, in a white room, in white clothes, not his. They were bed clothes he guessed. A heart monitor was beside him, and so was some other medical equipment, but he couldn’t make out what it was. There was a drip in his left arm though, but it may have well not have been there, as he couldn’t feel it. He closed his eyes. He slept.
Fractured and panicked dreams whirled around his head as he slept. The world spun. Voices rose in a clamour, and became and overwhelming babble of noise which he flinched and struggled to get away from. Laughter came in huge peels, vicious patronising laughter that sounded like it came from the mouth of a madman. It was like he was in a sort of semi hell, between one state and the next, stuck in limbo.
He woke.
There were people, people there. Walking. Moving. Talking. He strained his ears, picking up fragments of conversation.
“The subject is well.”
“When will we begin phase two?”
“Tomorrow.”
A crash.
“Jesus Christ, be careful with that you fool.”
He saw someone approach, silhouetted against the white black ground. They were dressed in white and holding a syringe. The syringe manoeuvred towards his neck.
He slept.
He woke up, in the bed. His memory was a turbulence of confusion. Where was he? Who was he? Why couldn’t he move?
He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he was John. That’s right, John. John Patterson. He heaved a sigh. He knew his name at least. But why couldn’t he move? His vision was blurry, his eyes itchy. The light hurt them. He squinted and made out some of his surroundings. He was lying down on a white bed, in a white room, in white clothes, not his. They were bed clothes he guessed. A heart monitor was beside him, and so was some other medical equipment, but he couldn’t make out what it was. There was a drip in his left arm though, but it may have well not have been there, as he couldn’t feel it. He closed his eyes. He slept.
Fractured and panicked dreams whirled around his head as he slept. The world spun. Voices rose in a clamour, and became and overwhelming babble of noise which he flinched and struggled to get away from. Laughter came in huge peels, vicious patronising laughter that sounded like it came from the mouth of a madman. It was like he was in a sort of semi hell, between one state and the next, stuck in limbo.
He woke.
There were people, people there. Walking. Moving. Talking. He strained his ears, picking up fragments of conversation.
“The subject is well.”
“When will we begin phase two?”
“Tomorrow.”
A crash.
“Jesus Christ, be careful with that you fool.”
He saw someone approach, silhouetted against the white black ground. They were dressed in white and holding a syringe. The syringe manoeuvred towards his neck.
He slept.