EDWIN
I woke up like I’d just been slapped out of a nightmare—chest tight, throat dry, head pounding like a drum someone forgot to stop beating.
My lungs dragged in air too fast, too sharp.
The lights above me were blinding. Cold. Harsh. The kind that buzzed and hummed and didn’t belong anywhere near someone trying to remember if they were alive.
For a second, I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
My arms felt like they weighed more than my body.
My legs were there, but not really. Everything ached—dull, deep, like I’d been thrown into a blender and someone had just hit “pause.”
There were tubes. In my arms. Something was taped to my chest. A machine to my left beeped out a rhythm that wasn’t mine but somehow kept time with me anyway.
My mouth opened to speak, but only a dry groan came out.
