Elaine
I woke slowly, as if surfacing from a dream I couldn’t quite remember. Something felt off immediately. The mattress beneath me was too firm, the sheet scratchy against my skin. Not mine. Not my bed. Not my room. I blinked, trying to orient myself, but my limbs felt heavy, my thoughts foggy. I was floating—numb, detached, like I was drifting on a cloud. Was I dead?
The thought made my heart stutter. I cracked my eyes open, squinting against the harsh light that stabbed at my pupils. White. Everything was white. Ceiling, walls, sheets. But there was a crack in the plaster overhead, jagged and imperfect. That didn’t seem very heavenly. So, no. Not dead. At least, not unless the afterlife had shoddy maintenance.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry, coated with a bitter chemical
