by Don Eckman

Created on: August 14, 2008

Lucky Thirteen

His vision was hazy, misted thick enough to swim in. White and grey floated about him, bubbles in grime. Squeezing his eyes shut, he made fists and ground the knuckles into the sockets. They came away wet, glistening where they hovered just in front of his cheeks. Some of the fog had lifted and sharpness came after it, though colour did not.
White linoleum floor with grey marbling. Whiter walls. A stomach height cabinet-counter, white faced, flush against the wall across from him. Brushed steel handles. Mottled dark, mid, and light grey faux granite overlay. Another one on his right, same design, sink hollowed into the centre. Stainless steel. Polished. White ceiling? White ceiling. Naked florescent tube, droning... whitewashing everything. No sun. No windows.

He blinked at the buzzing tube. It winked back, pinging. Scowling, he returned to the flat counter, laden with medical supplies: stethoscope, a jar of tongue depressors, blood pressure cuff, a package of gauze, a roll of tension bandage... a row of hypodermics.
There were a dozen of them, held plunger upright in a tidy little rack, clustered like teeth, their canines crowned with plastic sheathes. He lowered his hands, staring and slow, careful not to startle them into viciousness. Eyes unwavering, he wiped his emotionless tears on his sides.
The soft but grainy texture drew his attention down to his clothing. A baby blue gown... which explained the draft. He was a patient, then, but for what? He didn't recall coming here. Though he felt he'd been sleeping, he had awoken sitting up with nothing at his back to support him. Disoriented, he was suddenly glad for the drab room, simple and easy to place. Almost familiar. Like the needles.
He shook his head. The shifting weight made a creaking noise against the grey plastic covering the cushion under him. Intended to be a bed, it was more of a table (with a cushion on top), and stood in the middle of the room. His bare feet dangled over the edge, idle.
Noise? No, colour, to his left. Brown, but colour nonetheless. And on a door, better yet. Intuition told him it was locked - he knew this room after all, didn't he? - but a grasping trapped feeling argued against inaction. He slid off the bedtable, his naked butt squeaking across the rubberized overlay. As his feet hit the chilly floor, his wrist brushed something at the side of his former perch, jingling it. He looked back. A leather strap, brown again, with a chrome buckle. A restraint. His head

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