As Seen On TV

33. Gone Girl

I awoke in a strange bed, in a strange room, all color having seeped from my surroundings. I glanced up at the stark white ceiling, managed to turn my head enough to take stock of the fact that it hurt like hell, and winced, sucking in a breath. After blinking once or twice more, I reverted to squeezing my eyes shut and screwing up my features, counting down from 5 in my head.

I opened my eyes once again, hoping to see familiar surroundings. When I was greeted by the same blank, clinical whiteness as before, I bolted upright, ignoring the shocking pain in my head, chest and lungs. I began breathing heavily, clawing at myself and noticing the IV tube in my right arm for the first time.

I hated hospitals. Almost more than airports, and that was saying a lot. What was I doing here?

As if in answer to my mental question, the door opened, and a wave of sound and medical-tinged, too-clean scents swept in from the hallway.

"Oh my God, you're up! You're up, thank God!"

Patrick strode across the room, reaching the side of my bed in three quick strides. He sat in a chair and set down a coffee cup on the nearby nightstand, reaching for my hand. I flinched and drew it away, ignoring the look on his face. He seemed genuinely relieved, but a little bit... scared? It was almost as if he was going to cry. I shuddered at the thought.

"We were so worried. We thought... well, never mind what we thought. Important thing is, you're up."

"What..." I trailed off, looking around the room once again and avoiding his eyes, not knowing which of the million questions rampaging through my brain to ask him first.

"What the hell happened to me?" I decided to start with the easiest.

"The house... it-It started on fire. We don't know how or why. While we were... while we, er-- you know-"

"Hung out," I supplied flatly, wanting him to get to the point. I vaguely remembered having seen him before, a couple days ago, maybe. I wasn't sure what we had been doing. I reached out at the memory, feeling around with mind, trying desperately to remember, but I couldn't quite put my finger on the experience I was trying to recreate in my mind's eye. I had the feeling that it had been important, life-changing even, but that part of my memory seemed to be gone; a cold, black pit of nothing taking its place.

I had never seen Patrick as nervous as this. He gave me a questioning look, but I plowed on, past the black spot.

"Yeah, right, hung out, while we hung out, the other wing of the house was on fire, as we noticed. It was crazy. Like, I mean, really scary. Fifteen foot high columns of flame eating up the whole damn house and shit. I've never seen anything quite like it."

He paused and shook his head, seeming to recall the moment.

"And?" I prompted. "Any particular reason why it feels like The Rock took a sledgehammer to my skull?"

He cracked a weak smile, but I was grateful for the effort.

"Well, you insisted on going back for whatever you wanted to go back for- like a fucking imbecile, might I add- and apparently, you went out on the balcony just as the fire spread across the eaves and started on the other side of the house, near your room. The whole thing was going up like a tinderbox. A beam from overhead fell and cracked you on the skull, and you passed out. Doctors said you have a minor concussion, which, you know, isn't something to be glad about, but other than that, nothing but a couple scrapes and bruises."

I gaped. That, at least, explained the nonstop, throbbing aches and pains across my entire body. I had never hurt this much, and it was annoying me that I couldn't remember this. What had I been looking for? And what did he mean, 'gone back'? But, perhaps even more importantly...