"Your surgery went well."
The mint colored scrubs smell clean. The man doing what he calls a post-op checks over my chart. I look at him when he examines me. I think he's Asian. He has raven black hair that lays flat against his head, and his eyes are brown, so dark I feel as though I'm drowning in the far depths of space.
I'm dazed, barely able to move. Waves of excruciating pain were first directed at my head, but now they're coursing through the rest of my body – twisting, turning, kicking, punching, screaming.
I still try to remember why I'm here. I want to determine why everything is so bright, so . . . white.
The doctor with the doe eyes and braided red velvet hair comes into the room and walks toward my bedside.
"Okay, so I have an idea of what's causing your brain loss; I'm just going to need a blood sample to ensure I'm on the right track."
"Blood sample?" My throat is dry. The man in the mint scrubs grabs the cup of water at my bedside and places the straw to my lips. My hand keeps twitching, so I entangle my fingers in the bedsheets to try and make it stop.
"Yes," she says, wide eyed. "I need to take a drug test, but first I'm going to need your consent."
I contemplate, looking up into the fields of green in her eyes. She looks rushed, as though her mind is rapidly racing, as though a thought has occurred to her. I can see it all in those fields of long, green grass.
"Okay," I mumble out, barely managing to speak.
After she nods, I prepare myself for the large needle. I see a rich color of red escape my arm.
She whispers to the the man in the mint green scrubs. "I'll page you if I get anything."
He nods.
I look down at my hands.
I see caramel.
Swirling caramel.