Story: Sweet Little Lamb

Uncertain's picture

Sweet Little Lamb

The shock was still ricocheting inside my head when I opened my eyes. Where am I? A beeping sound echoed steadily within the white interiors of the room.

Nearby a nurse was caressing the wounds of a man who had scratches that clawed over his torso. His left foot dangled over the edge of the bed, lifeless. I could not stare for too long because even the slightest turn of my head resulted in excruciating pain that burned like a heated blade. My vision, drowsy and blurred, seemed to be fogged by the illuminated light that sprayed through a murky mist. A smell of chlorine dug its way up my nose. Two or three beds away was a body swallowed by a white blanket.

“Looks like the morphine’s wearing off,” a comforting voice acknowledged my existence.
The nurse walked over, each step followed by a crisp click of the soles knocking itself against the marble floor.
“Where…” a sharp pain penetrated my jaws.
The machine kept beeping. A voice dragged on. “You’re in hospital my dear… You crashed into another…”
I heard a shriek inside me. It screamed “NO! NO!” I wasn’t sure if I had said it out loud.

“We’ll try and contact your parents.”

Wait, what about my parents? Oh stupid bloody party, it wasn’t my fault I crashed! How my parents would give me more hell than ever! I didn’t do this! The other car was speeding so fast it was like a lightning that flashed across my eye. Just milliseconds later you could hear the thunder. Then I was here. That was what I would tell everybody. My parents would believe me. Oh no they wouldn’t. “No pocket money, no television, computer, phone, internet… grounded!” How I sometimes wished they would just disappear.

“We’ll try and get hold of your parents, but we need to know your name and number,” after a short pause that rested blankly in the atmosphere, she continued “we’ll transfer you to a normal unit soon. Nothing worse than witnessing the horrors of this intensive care unit.”

I squinted at the blinding light of the ceiling instead of trying to manoeuvre my stiff neck to scan the disgusting horrors around me. This was hell in its own sense, infesting the world with a dark tense atmosphere, drowned in the unshed tears and muffled screams of innocent victims. Not the hell and torture of two weeks missing the latest Simpsons episode.

I closed my eyes, “Morgan Wilson. Six-seven-one-nine-six…” those words leaked out of me without my own cognitive consent. My mind had floated somewhere else. The words were bled from my internal wounds. It’s a bit like the realisation of a sheep being fed sweetened grass but suddenly felt the blade to its throat.

Those eyes.

Those lies about killing being sweet. However unlike the sheep I deserved this. Perhaps I had put the victims of the other car in this same room. They could be suffering the pains I had given them. They could be dead. Oh I would tell my parents everything when they came. I would tell them how I drunk and drove. I would tell them the hell of giving other people hell. I would redeem myself.

My eyes were still closed when the same familiar voice echoed off my ear.
“We’re transferring you to another unit.”
I was the sheep who did not want to die, but had accepted the sliding course of the blade. However I was left to live. They rolled my hospital bed away as the room’s regular beeping became quieter and quieter…

“We can’t get hold of your parents…” then a tingle travelled down my spine as I knew why. I had opened my eyes and caught the glimpse of a desperate glow in the pupils of a man with clawed scratches over him. The glimpse was faster than any speeding car but I was sure it was him. I was the slaughterer sharpening the butcher knife. He had gazed at ‘us’. A blanket-swallowed body and I got pushed out side by side.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get them soon.”
His foot dangled lifeless. The beeping stopped. A constant flatline sounded as the nurse and numerous others flooded in towards the man.