Try to get out of bed

You try to push yourself up, and a bolt of pain shoots down your spine from the base of your skull. You flop back onto the bed, your heart racing, your breathing shallow and rapid. You don't think you can do it. You are too weak, and the pain in your spine is too great. Suddenly, you have a flash of memory. You remember being in a garden. You are talking to a woman. You can't see who it is, but you hear her voice. She says: "Of course, you can do anything you want."

You suddenly and inexplicably feel encouraged to try again. Pressing your hands against the mattress, you heave yourself up with all of your might. Pain goes racing down your spine and you cry out involuntarily, but you stay sitting up. Your head is swimming, and you suddenly realize that you have a pounding headache. You hold your head in your hands, and as your fingertips touch the rough ridges on your face, you remember why you wanted to get up in the first place.

With an effort, you swing your legs over the side of the bed. They feel like sandbags, and hardly respond to your intentions. Using your arms for leverage, you push yourself off the side of the bed, like you are sliding into a pool. But your legs offer no support. You collapse on the floor in a heap. The IV tube tugs painfully on your hand and rattles the rolling stand it is hooked to.

You grab the stand with one hand, using it for support, and drag yourself with your other hand to the end of the bed, pulling the IV drip behind you. You try to push yourself forward with your legs, but your feet slide uselessly against the smooth tile, too weak to get a good grip. Painfully, inch by inch, you drag yourself around the curtain.

You are relieved to find that you are alone in the room. The bed beside yours is empty and neatly folded, apparently not being used, and the door to the room is closed. You can't see anything through the window on the door but the wall on the opposite side of the hall. On the far side of the second bed is a second door, the door to the washroom.

You drag yourself to the washroom door and lean against it, resting momentarily. Once you have caught your breath, you reach up and pull down the handle. The door doesn't move, and you realize that it opens outward, and that you are leaning against it. You twist around, trying to face the door, and a searing burst of pain sets your spine on fire. You cry out again, tears welling in your eyes.

What happened to you? Is your spine damaged? Will you always feel this incredible pain whenever you move? Is it even worth it? To see your face? To see what has become of you, and to know who you are? Or, at least, what you look like? Perhaps you should just stay where you are and wait for the doctor. Perhaps you are only making things worse. Perhaps you should have listened to the nursing assistant.

You rest for a minute, trying to catch your breath, but your mind is racing wildly. You have to know. You have to see who you are. Maybe the sight of your face will trigger a memory and you will remember what happened. Perhaps it will help you to remember who you are. Maybe then everything will make sense.

Then again, maybe it's better that you don't know. Maybe that's why you've forgotten in the first place. Maybe remembering who you are, the things that you've done, or the things that have been done to you, will push you over the edge. Maybe that's why you're here. Maybe you did this to yourself. Or somebody did this to you. And if that's the case, do you really want to remember what drove you to this?