byCarmine

What they say about comas, it’s not true.

Read an encyclopedia and it’ll tell you that it is a state of unconsciousness from which you cannot be roused. Well, the last part is right, there’s very little that can be done to awaken someone once they’re out to it.

But I can assure you, that I was entirely conscious for the six and a half weeks that I was comatose. It is not an experience I will soon forget and it was an experience that would change my life.

And like the phoenix rising from the ashes, I opened my eyes; reborn. But not just me, the world arournd me too. But I get a head of myself.

The moment my lashes raised, I immediately sensed something was wrong. Correction. I KNEW something was wrong. At first just a feeling, but soon, as I gathered my wits and took in my surroundings it was confirmed. I was in trouble. And whilst for me, this isn’t entirely unusual (I was forever stumbling over my two left feet or saying things before I had started up my brain), this was different.

Where one would expect to awake from a coma to find a hospital bed beneath them, with an over-hard mattress, starched sheets and that distinctive smell of antiseptic. There was not. Instead something way to luxurious and soft to be found in any but the most expensive of hospitals and I know I’m not made of money. What little money I got from working part-time in the local bookstore (just barely) enabled me to make ends meet whilst studying. But the job had some rather nice perks, with my love for books, a twenty percent discount was nothing to be scoffed at.

Certainly it was not enough to afford … silk?! sheets? A deep red. Like blood. Blood. Not something I really wanted to think about. There was more than enough blood right before this whole coma thing started. And that, right now, I wanted to forget.

I’ve always been a bit suspicious. Paranoid, maybe. And I just knew this wasn’t good. Parting the delicate ivory lace curtain that surrounded the four-poster bed, revealed more opulance of the antique kind that only comes to those with a few thousand to spare. Thousands. Millions. For me, just having a spare twenty in my pocket made me feel rich. Anything more than that was beyond my comprehension.

Still, there was a nagging feeling at the back of my head telling me to get out of there. The need to run was foremost in my mind as I lept from the bed intending to get out of this all-too-rich place. Through the window if necessary. Ideally without breaking any bones. Did I mention that I’m not good with blood?

My legs, however, had a different idea. Not yet having found the capacity to stand, they crumbled beneath me to leave me sprawling on the way-too-soft sheep skin rug.

Naked. That can’t be good.