Bad Memory

~ Bound ~

I'm infected.

That was the only explanation I could think of for waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed with a blistering headache and body aches that worsened with even the slightest twitch.

I didn't know how I had gotten the parasite. I didn't know how I ended up at the hospital. But I did know that my death was imminent. No one infected survived beyond 48 hours.

A swell of panic rose in my chest, accompanied by a wave of nausea, but I quickly suppressed it. Fear was a luxury I couldn't afford if I wanted to make my final moments matter. Strict quarantine laws forbid contact between infected and non-infected, but I could at least leave my parents and Lillian letters.

Before I could further plan out my death, though, the door to my room opened, and a medical assistant walked in.

No gloves. No mask. No suit.

I wasn't infected.

Then why am I here?

"Sir?" I asked him, finding my voice abnormally raspy. I hadn't ever smoked - it was illegal for women - but it sounded like I had every day for my entire life.

Instead of answering my question, the assistant's eyes went wide. He bolted out of my room without a word.

Now even more confused, I tried to replay in my mind the last thing I remembered. Lillian had called me sobbing, but I couldn't understand what she was saying. It was after curfew, so I snuck out of my bedroom window, shimmied down the drainpipe, and ran to her house.

At least, I think I did. I remembered my beaten-up tennis shoes - the ones I had hidden in my closet to save them from my mother's cleaning purges - pounding against a pavement dusted with snow. Flakes fell lazily around me, some sticking to an old hoodie I had haphazardly thrown on. I darted through alleyways to avoid being seen. But I had also tied my hair back and tucked it into the hoodie so hopefully if anyone saw me, they wouldn't realize I was a woman.

I remembered running...but I didn't remember ever getting to Lillian's house. Maybe I had been hit by a car? But that still didn't explain the handcuffs.

A man in a stiff, white coat appeared in the doorway. His smile was warm, almost reassuring, but a sharpness in his eyes prevented me from relaxing.

"Shiloh Abbott?" he asked. His voice, much like his presence, was soothing, but tinged with a hint of ice.

I acknowledged him by nodding silently. I had always been taught that with men, words were unnecessary where a gesture would suffice.

"How do you feel?" the doctor continued as he approached my bedside and studied me from head to toe with clinical detachment.

"Confused," I answered quietly.

He nodded to himself. "That's not abnormal with head trauma." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small flashlight, which he shone in my eyes. "Are you in any pain?"

I nodded again.

"How much?"

"A lot," I admitted.

"Also not abnormal," he remarked as he lowered his flashlight. "I'll give you something to help with that."

As he picked up a clipboard and began to scribble some notes, I tried to resist the urge to ask a question. He would tell me what I needed to know.

But what I needed to know wasn't the same as what I wanted to know.

"Sir, if I may?" I asked as gently as I could.