Damn it! Get up and move! She screamed at herself, clenching her fists around the railing and twisting her hips off the bed. Her knees wanted to buckle, but she refused to give in to the muscle shakes and spasms racking her entire body. She pinched her eyes closed and tried to take a few tentative steps. Her muscles quivered and screamed in anger.
Hell, how long have I been in that bed? She growled in her mind. She looked down at her body that seemed to act as a hanger for the cotton hospital gown dripping off her.
Too long.
She pushed herself and stepped away from the safety of the bed.
Move, move, move, she chanted.
Weapon, I need a weapon. She stumbled on bare feet to the door that stood slightly ajar. Her teeth were chattering from shock and her brain felt numb, but she knew she needed to get out of there. It was night, and that was her only advantage. She saw the corridor through the crack in the door and noted that the place she was in looked more like a lavish private home than a hospital. She saw heavy, ornate décor.
There’s got to be a weapon I can use, she seethed, trying desperately to put the pieces of her memory back together. Her brain felt as lethargic as her body.
What’s happened to me?
She pulled the door open slowly, begging there not to be a loud squeak from some unoiled hinge. It opened silently. She used the wall to help her stay standing and willed her stiff legs to catch her as she pushed herself forward. Nothing could stop her motivation: survival.
She peeked into the next room, bracing herself for anything, but it was empty and a soft lamp was on in the far corner. It looked like a small kitchen with a refrigerator, microwave, icemaker and a few tables with chairs.
This must be some sort of lounge. She thought. Maybe I can find a knife.
The first drawer she pulled open was full of paper plates and plastic utensils.
Useless.
The next drawer clattered just enough for her to know it contained metal objects. She saw the glint of a large kitchen knife among pizza cutters, ice cream scoops, ladles and other serving utensils. She grabbed the knife and exited the room as fast as her shaky body would carry her. In the hallway, she heard voices.
They’d found her empty room.
She stayed ducked back as a nurse wearing scrubs hurried by mumbling. Her rubber shoes squeaked stupidly with every step so she was easy to track. Once the hall was clear, Meg slipped out of the lounge and hurried to the next room. Even from outside the door, she heard loud snores vibrating from inside. She opened the door and saw a rotund figure lying on the bed, its chest rising and falling in time with its snorts.
Chapter 36 Who am I?
“Shh, don’t make a sound,” Meg whispered. “Do you feel this?” she pressed the business end of the butcher knife deeper into the skin of the portly man’s sweaty neck as he lay on his back in his bed. The echoes of his sleep apnea induced snores still reverberated around the room.
The greasy-faced man squeaked his terrified response.
“Good. Where am I?”
“You-you’re in a house.” His breath was rancid garbage.
“No shit, Sherlock. Whose house and where?” The girl gripped the knife harder in her unsteady hand.
“Dr. Williams has us in Southern Italy.” His voice raised a panicked octave.
“How long have I been here?”
The pasty little man stopped breathing for a moment before he tried a different tactic, “Meg, you must be suffering from amnesia. I’m Dr. Chaunders. You were in a horrific helicopter crash and suffered severe brain trauma. We’ve been keeping you in a medically induced coma so the trauma and swelling could heal. It’s why you have no memories and why your father is,” he paused to find the right word, “still recovering.”
Meg frowned, comparing this story to the thoughts in her still foggy, drug-affected mind. All she could remember was hazy flashes of what she thought were dreams.
Seeing doubt move across the girl’s face in the glow of the bathroom light, Dr. Chaunders decided he needed to pounce.
“You remember the helicopter, right?”
“Vaguely,” Meg mumbled.
“You weren’t supposed to wake so soon. How do you feel?”
Meg refused to remove the knife from his throat, however malodorous his breath. She pressed the knife in harder, her knuckles brushing his slimy skin.
Both Meg and Chaunders gasped but for entirely different reasons.
Chaunders’ throat was bleeding and Meg was locked in a vile emotional roller coaster. She felt the man’s fear as though it was her own. She sensed his panic and terror so acutely, she began to shiver. A cold sweat blossomed on her forehead.
Then she felt a distinct moment of exhilaration. The disgusting man’s fear morphed into anxiousness.
“What did you just do?” she seethed. Anger and frustration blossomed deep inside Meg. “What just happened?”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please take the knife away from my neck.”
“Something,” Meg cocked her head as though listening, “yes, now I remember.”