How I found out transmigration was a thing.

Chapter 4 - Pass the Parcel.

Woke up but was unable to open my eyes or move. My other senses are working fine but I can't remember how to work my body parts. After panicking, screaming and swearing in her head, I calmed down. The hysteria was laughably pointless.

I'm trying to think logically. I'm warm and comfortable, feel cloth beneath my fingers and palms, so I'm not lying on the hiking trail out in the elements. So, I must be in a hospital. My mind keeps going back to the fact I can't move. No matter how hard I concentrate I can't open my eyes or move a single muscle. I'm scared.

Weirdly, my fear is lessened by one of the most annoying noises known to man which is vibrating around the otherwise quiet room. All I can hear is the sound of gurgly snoring nearby. Can there be a more grating sound? If the person making the horrendously revolting noise is supposed to be watching over me they are doing a poor job of it. I have to laugh or else I'd cry, at the thought that this grating noise may force me to wake up properly from sheer frustration.

I tell myself to fantasize, daydream, do anything to block out the gurgle. I try to piece together what I remember and I'm happy to find that all my memories are intact. If there is brain damage it's not to that part brain at least.

I am Erin Thomas, 22, Naturopath, only child. Yes, it was all there. Childhood memories, enough mother/daughter conflict to fuel several nervous breakdowns, school days, first love, all the way through to the unfortunate incident on the trail. My last memory is the strange dream about floating in the ocean anchored to a cloud that kept me from drifting away.

I assume by some miracle I was found and saved. If being saved meant being left comatose. Logic tells me that the damage was done before I was rescued and all that is left of me is a lump of flesh in a hospital bed refusing to die. Quality of life - zero. Just my luck.

The room is very quiet, like all hospital rooms at night. I've done several placements in small hospitals and know how they work, but I wonder why there's no beeping, surely I was being monitored. The more I think about it, the more a rhythmic beeping would reassure me that I'm still alive, if only by a thread.

A sudden cool breeze on my cheek and neck as a door slides open feels fantastic and clears my mind instantly. Shuffling footsteps move quietly around the room, then the snoring turns into a loud splutter as the person wakes up abruptly. There's mumbling, I don't catch what's said, it sounds more like gibberish than words but I'm happy to hear the faint voices of other humans. It feels like it has been ages since I heard a voice, a kind word, anything that feels remotely normal.

Somewhere in the room, there is a clatter of metal and soon the smell of incense reaches me. It's overpowering and makes me feel nauseous. I feel like I'm in church and the priest has been heavy-handed with the frankincense and sandalwood. It fills the room so quickly I want to retch.

I seem to be the only one that it offends.  People move around me going about their jobs. Two pairs of gentle hands lift the blanket off me and the warm heaviness that I remember feeling as the cloud descended on me was gone. Then my already heaving stomach is hit with a vile stench. It explains the incense. It's meant to cover this even worse smell.

Dear Lord, seriously? I mentally slap myself in the face. I'm the disgusting smell. I'd obviously soiled myself, several times over by the smell of it. If I could, I would blush as deep as a beetroot and apologise myself hoarse for the mess they had to clean up.

The bells, I hear the familiar tinkle of bells.  There's a brief loud flurry and then they go silent. I am confused and humiliated, and I can't do anything about anything.

My clothes are gently peeled away and warm wet cloths wipe down my chest and arms, the remainder of my clothes are removed smoothly. My carers know their business, they are fast and professional. I'm cleaned and then rolled over so the same can be done to my back. I notice that the hands that touch me aren't wearing gloves, but they are gentle and soft.  I'm not complaining but gloves are normal hospital practice. I wish I could get a better handle of where I am.