BEN
The sterile hospital room is a prison cell, an unyielding reminder of my brokenness. I'm trapped in this white-walled purgatory, shackled to the relentless beep of the heart monitor and the slow drip of IV fluids. Headaches torture me, gripping my temples like a vice before releasing a torrent of nosebleeds that stain my pillow crimson.
"Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats flits through my mind, a lighthouse amidst these stormy seas of recollection. I cling to every word like a drowning man to driftwood, desperate for comfort. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense..." I murmur the words aloud, though they jumble in my mouth like marbles, tumbling and clattering against one another.
"Mr. Davenport?" A nurse peeks into my room, her eyes filled with concern as she takes
