Death Drive

Chapter 9

He made a fist with his left hand. It felt as strong as before, although moving his shoulder still ached.

"How do you feel? Dizziness? Ringing in ears? Hazy vision?"

"Some but getting better all the time."

"If that continues you might get home tomorrow, if the doctor discharges you and after the police have spoken with you."

He raised his eyebrows. "The police?"

"The other driver, Mr. Walker," she said, voice quieter than before. "He didn't make it."

An image burst into his mind, clear as day; the last split second before the collision he had caught a glimpse of a black-haired man in the runaway vehicle, mouth open in a scream hushed by the insulation of the vehicles, twisting the stuck steering wheel with all his might to no avail.

"There was something wrong with his car," he said, a bit too quickly even for his own taste. "It would not turn."

"I'd tell that to the police. I'll bring you some supper, make sure to use the call button if you need anything," she said, nodding politely and walking over to the other bed.

"I'd better work on my delivery before the official questioning. I barely believed myself."

He looked over the nurse checking the girl's binds and changing her IV fluid bag.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Patient confidentiality," she said in a tone that announced there would be no further debate on the subject.

He pressed on. "Why is she tied down? You can't keep her here if she's mentally sound. I'm not locked in some psychiatric hospital, am I?"

She seemed to consider a moment. "She'll be institutionalized when her somatic health allows. She sliced up her face under some psychotic break. Poor thing."

He took a closer look at the sleeping woman, but the dimmed lights and bushy hair obscured her face. He lied down, pulling the blanket to his chin.

"Maybe things will look brighter after the meal."

He doubted it.

"They aren't real."

He woke up, the last remnants of some dream still echoing in his mind. The room was barely lit by a few dim lights, most of the illumination falling from the window. The Venetian blinds allowed only narrow lines of lights inside so only the feet of their beds were visible in a space of dark silhouettes. The digital clock on the wall read 4:37 in its green numbers. He closed his eyes, ready to fall back to whatever fantasy his mind had been subjecting him to.

"None of it is real."

His eyes shot open. He hadn't imagined the words; they had come from the darkness where his roommate resided. He rose to a sitting position, peering into the blackness. A curtain had been pulled partially between them, so he couldn't see the head of the bed.

"Stop talking," she shouted, the exclamation sounding loud as an explosion in the silence. Even the beeps of their monitors had been muted for the night. He couldn't help but jump, elbowing the supper tray resting on his nightstand. The eaten-clean tableware clinked together, the high notes seeming to take forever to die out in the silent night. He waited, not moving a muscle.

"I know you're in there," the voice said in a conversational tone. "They told me. They know everything."

"Is there anything you need?" he said, thinking it best to just ignore her ramblings. "Should I call the nurse?"