Working Title WIP

Here it is, a little taste of my current work in progress. This bit has been heavily edited, but I think it still gets the general point across. Enjoy:

Lights and sirens. That’s the first thing I can remember. People shouting. My hands are sticky and I smell that iron tang. The one that can only come from one thing.

I feel like I am floating. Or flying. It’s fast. More lights flash. The voices are louder, but they still seem far away. There is urgency now. They are saying something. Something I should understand, but I can’t make sense of the noise. The effort is exhausting. I’m tired. And falling. Everything is falling away. Maybe I’m falling asleep.

“And then I woke up here. Shackled to a bed with a needle in my arm. I’ve woken up in some pretty terrible places in my time, but this one takes the biscuit, let me tell you. When can I go home?”

“Soon. Your lawyers have managed to have the commitment downgraded to a seventy-two hour hold. That leaves you with another day in here. Are you sure that there is nothing else you remember? Perhaps from before the party?”

The doctor is speaking in even tones, but I can tell that she is stressed. She doesn’t want me to leave. If I were her, I wouldn’t want me to leave either. I don’t remember being brought here, but I’ve been told that I was so coated in blood that my clothes had to be peeled off of me like a rind.

God, I need a drink. Sobriety is a policy they take very seriously at this hospital, I am told. They are monitoring me for symptoms of the DTs. Apparently, when they brought me in, I was bordering on alcohol poisoning, which  sounds about right. I don’t remember any party, but if I were forced to attend one, my very first stop would have been the bar.

Dr Sarah has leaned forward in her chair. I’m no longer paying attention, and she knows it. She says nothing, but when I meet her gaze she begins to scribble on her notepad. 

I’m suddenly glad for the expertise of my step-father’s legal team. For once, the edict of my misspent youth is easy to follow. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know whose blood it was that I was supposedly drowning in. My life ended on a Friday morning in March. And it began again strapped to a bed in a mental ward on Sunday afternoon. Nearly forty-eight hours are simply missing.

My name is Andrew Morten. I’m thirty-five years old. It is late March in the year 2018. And this is my worst nightmare.

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