Monachopsis

Chapter XXXV: I Woke Up In Quarantine

Have I mentioned yet how much I hate hospitals? Or, rather, I hate being a patient in a hospital. Being hooked up to monitors and screens like some kind of test subject. 

Growing up, any time I was in the hospital--if it wasn't to visit my mother--it was as a subject in some drug trial or something like that. As a baby, I was in and out of the ICU a lot due to my immune system being about as stable as a house built with duct tape. Believe me, it got old very quickly.

The first thing I heard when I woke up in Dale County Hospital was the heart monitor. It was steady and slow, and about as high-pitched as a dog whistle (but that might have been just me). My head pounded like someone was inside my skull and hammering away on my brain. My mouth was dry, my chest hurt, and every single muscle in my body was sore. My throat hurt, and the thought of opening them made me want to cover my face and sink back into the sweet relief of oblivion.

The universe, however, seems to enjoy watching me suffer.

Sounds of movement somewhere to the right of me had my eyes opening on instinct. In doing so, I was immediately met with impossibly bright fluorescent lights, and immediate regret. I groaned, whipping an arm over my eyes. Pain shot up my arm, and I hissed.

"Oh," I groaned, searching blindly along my blankets for the call button. "Where's the Morphine Pump when you need one?"

"Well, good morning to you, too." Over by the drawn shades, Sam was leaning against the wall. He was clean and groomed, and free of cuts or bruises. Or, at least, what I could see of him was. Sam's clothes were covered by a sheer gown--the kind father's wear in the delivery room. His hands were gloved and his shoes were bagged in booties. He had on a hair net, and a paper face mask.

I let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. I lifted my arm--slower this time--and closed my fingers around the breathing mask on my face. I tried to tear it off, but before I could rid myself of the plastic monstrosity, Sam darted forward, grabbing my wrist gently and guiding my hand away from my face. I was too weak to fight him.

"Don't," he warned. His eyes were serious above his mask. "You're gonna need as much oxygen as you can get until the pneumonia clears up."

I rolled my eyes. I searched the room until I located the water pitcher on the table beside the bed. My throat immediately grew ten times drier. I pointed at it, and Sam snatched it from the side table. He fed me spoonfuls of ice chips until my throat felt quenched enough to speak.

"Pneumonia, huh?" I croaked. "Looks like those kids got me good. You look like a plague doctor."

Sam huffed, smiling despite himself. "Sure. That's one way to put it. The hospital has you in quarantine until the worst of it passes."

I looked around the room again. Someone was missing. "Where's Dean?"

"He stayed behind to clean up the mess back at the motel," Sam replied. "I saw Joanna a couple of hours ago; she was headed back to get Michael."

"Joanna?" I asked. "What about Asher?"

"She said he's gonna be okay. Him and the rest of the sick kids. Looks like the shtriga won't have any lingering affects after all."

Relief flooded my chest. I took a deep breath, ignoring the tightness and the dull rattle. "That's great! That's...that's good."

I was happy that the kids would be going home. It would've been tragic if killing the shtriga did nothing to help them. But something else was bothering me. And Sam seemed to notice.

"What is it?" he asked.

I hesitated. "How...I mean, how did Dean take it? Killing the shtriga?"