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[KBF] Waking
Dec. 20th, 2014 12:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oneblackcatIt didn't work.
This was Omi's first realization as he opened his eyes to a sterile, bright room. He was awake, and that meant he was alive, and that meant he'd failed.
It was his only thought for several minutes. He was confused and tired, and kept thinking about going back to sleep. A couple of times, he did.
When he finally did come to more fully, his mind was blurry except for that one thought: he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't.
It seemed like a horrible irony. Of all people to fail a suicide attempt-- a boy in the business of making things die? Of course, he'd known going into it that there was only a chance of the drug being strong enough. He missed the obvious implication that to be in a medical room and not an interrogation one, it had been a close enough call for intervention.
He thought he was going to vomit. He curled his arm around his stomach, not registering until a good half a minute later that he'd been able to move it. His hands and feet weren't tied.
He almost tried to fumble out of the bed, to find a scalpel, a pair of scissors, a syringe, anything sharp. But when one's vision was a dizzying spin, leaping out of bed was just not in the cards. It was maddening: here he was with no restraints and apparently no guards, and neither one was needed to keep him planted right there on the bed.
He blearily tried to take in more of his surroundings. A bed with white sheets. Wires and beeps from equipment monitoring his vital signs. An IV taped to the top of his hand. And, unsurprisingly, an incredibly tender sore on his tongue. As his vision cleared, Omi tried, shakily, to push himself to sitting upright. His muscles didn't seem to want to cooperate, though, and after a couple of seconds they gave out, putting him right back against the mattress.
He lay alone, watching the nothing, and wondering, vaguely, where he was. And what the heck time it was.
This was Omi's first realization as he opened his eyes to a sterile, bright room. He was awake, and that meant he was alive, and that meant he'd failed.
It was his only thought for several minutes. He was confused and tired, and kept thinking about going back to sleep. A couple of times, he did.
When he finally did come to more fully, his mind was blurry except for that one thought: he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't.
It seemed like a horrible irony. Of all people to fail a suicide attempt-- a boy in the business of making things die? Of course, he'd known going into it that there was only a chance of the drug being strong enough. He missed the obvious implication that to be in a medical room and not an interrogation one, it had been a close enough call for intervention.
He thought he was going to vomit. He curled his arm around his stomach, not registering until a good half a minute later that he'd been able to move it. His hands and feet weren't tied.
He almost tried to fumble out of the bed, to find a scalpel, a pair of scissors, a syringe, anything sharp. But when one's vision was a dizzying spin, leaping out of bed was just not in the cards. It was maddening: here he was with no restraints and apparently no guards, and neither one was needed to keep him planted right there on the bed.
He blearily tried to take in more of his surroundings. A bed with white sheets. Wires and beeps from equipment monitoring his vital signs. An IV taped to the top of his hand. And, unsurprisingly, an incredibly tender sore on his tongue. As his vision cleared, Omi tried, shakily, to push himself to sitting upright. His muscles didn't seem to want to cooperate, though, and after a couple of seconds they gave out, putting him right back against the mattress.
He lay alone, watching the nothing, and wondering, vaguely, where he was. And what the heck time it was.
