This is bad. Right? She's pretty sure you don't wake up in what looks a hell of a lot like a hospital, with no recollection of why you're there, if things aren't bad.
Outwardly, things don't seem that bad. She's intact and pain-free. There are a few gnarly-looking scars on her body, but they're too old to explain why she's here now. She's not even hooked up to any of the machines by the bed, and there are no hovering professionals or concerned family members asking how she's feeling.
... It's probably bad that when she tries to conjure up an image of what a concerned family member would look like, she gets nothing. She comes up similarly short when she tries to dredge up other things that should be obvious: the date. Her age. Her name.
Yes, okay, this is definitely bad.
Since there's nothing stopping her, she gets out of bed. She spares a moment to pluck at the plain, cotton gown she's wearing (at least it's closed in the back), then pads over to the door, which is conveniently unlocked.
There's no one in the hall. No one stops her as she edges down to the nearest intersection and peers around the corner, either. Someone should have stopped her by now, right? What kind of operation are these people running? She's a frigging amnesiac. Someone should be taking care of her.
Her indignation is enough to override any caution-driven impulses she might have to keep quiet. "Hello?" she calls down the halls. "Hey!"
no subject
Outwardly, things don't seem that bad. She's intact and pain-free. There are a few gnarly-looking scars on her body, but they're too old to explain why she's here now. She's not even hooked up to any of the machines by the bed, and there are no hovering professionals or concerned family members asking how she's feeling.
... It's probably bad that when she tries to conjure up an image of what a concerned family member would look like, she gets nothing. She comes up similarly short when she tries to dredge up other things that should be obvious: the date. Her age. Her name.
Yes, okay, this is definitely bad.
Since there's nothing stopping her, she gets out of bed. She spares a moment to pluck at the plain, cotton gown she's wearing (at least it's closed in the back), then pads over to the door, which is conveniently unlocked.
There's no one in the hall. No one stops her as she edges down to the nearest intersection and peers around the corner, either. Someone should have stopped her by now, right? What kind of operation are these people running? She's a frigging amnesiac. Someone should be taking care of her.
Her indignation is enough to override any caution-driven impulses she might have to keep quiet. "Hello?" she calls down the halls. "Hey!"