Summary: An opportunity to participate in a paid medical study at Hawkins Department of Energy seems to promise you an escape from your misery.
Pair: Henry Creel/Vecna/001 x Female Reader
Content/Warning Labels: slow burn darkfic, poverty, parental trauma, implied alcoholism, implied physical abuse, Hawkins Lab, medical experiment, needles, memory loss, manipulation/Brenner, eventual smut - age gap
Here is the world to which I am condemned, in which, despite myself, I must somehow live.- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The House of the Dead
The day felt charged from the very beginning.
From the moment you woke up, shivering under your threadbare blanket, against the dampness that invaded your bedroom through the permanent break in the window pane.
Your father was passed out on the couch as usual, crumpled cans at his feet, the tv blasting black and white static.
You sighed. Not a sound of concern, but one of your miserable expectations having been met yet again. The blanket you threw over him was a mercy as much as it was a punishment. For him to wake from his stupor and know you’d once again had to be the parent.
If he even gave a shit. Which he wouldn't.
The kitchen cupboards were bare, boasting nothing but bread that was crusted in a way that meant stale, not fancy. You pulled out a slice, tearing off the worst of the crust, not bothering to butter it before chewing.
Dad. We need groceries. I’ll be home after classes.
You left the note exactly where you knew he’d find it. In the empty fridge, folded neatly on top of a can of Budweiser, along with some grocery coupons.
Threads were starting to fray from where you’d sewn together the laces of your worn out Converse. Your finger slid over the rough joins as you pulled them on. You made a mental note to ask at the Student Centre for some more thread if you got the chance.
You threw on what you coined the communal jacket; the huge, faded hunting jacket of your father’s from decades long past, when he had been an actual person. Your hands fell into the deep pockets, fingers poking through the holes.
By all accounts it was a regular, miserable morning. At least, it should have been. The trees swayed normally. The pavement was unexceptional, wet from the rain. The sky was a monotonous, grey shade of winter.
The bus driver had the expression of someone who’d thoroughly given up, the very same face he had every day. His fingers were their normal, nicotine-stained orange as they grappled around your change. The bus brakes were shrill, a final alarm that woke you fully as they screeched off from the stop.
And yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling. The looming of something just outside of your peripheral vision. The settling of something charged against your skin.
Something you could taste but not name.
The campus of Hawkins Community College was exactly what you’d expect from the name. Beige, flat, half-alive. Scattered with students; the mundane, the half baked, the ones who couldn’t afford even the thought of a big name education. The ones who had no other option, like you. The ones who where determined to go somewhere, anywhere, despite themselves.
You checked the flyers pinned to the cork board in the foyer, just like you usually did before class. Your eyebrows rose at one stack in particular.
The local gas station, looking for a part time employee. A bathroom attendant more specifically. You shuddered at the thought, but you were in no position to be picky about potential income, no matter how meagre it was. You tore one off, folded it and put it in your pocket with extra care, like it was the promise of a new life.
History was usually your favourite. Your imagination could curl so easily around the ancient anecdotes, the dusty texts and forgotten people. It was fun to imagine yourself as a Greek goddess, or a Roman empress, or an Egyptian princess. Even for an hour, even for a moment.
But your mind wandered out the window, into the rain, into the charged day.
You could feel it pressing against the windows… something. That big, nameless weight that felt changing, like a tipping point.
It loomed all day. Followed you into classes, back onto the bus in the fading afternoon light. It wandered through the doors of the gas station with you, rolled against your ankles as you approached the cashier.
“Hello.” You said. Too cheery, too false. Already trying to sell yourself. As if you needed to in order to scrub toilets.
The cashier barely looked up. He was inflating a large bubble of pink gum from his mouth. It popped loudly, making you jerk back a fraction. He didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows in wait.
“Oh, right, I - I wanted to ask about your open position.” You uncrumpled the flyer from your pocket. “Is there a... manager I can speak to?”
The cashier looked at you with dead eyes.
“Positions filled.” He said lazily, jerking his head towards the back of the store.
A teenager in a too-big, offensively bright fluorescent vest was dragging around a full bucket and mop awkwardly, grimacing already at the choice they’d made.
“Oh,” you bit your lip as you watched them. Your head turned back to the cashier. “Look, I really really need this job. Desperately.”
“You desperately need to clean the toilet?” He scoffed, blowing another fat gum bubble.
“Well, not specifically. I mean, isn’t there any other job I can do?” You looked him up and down, trying to find your sweetest smile. “You look like the type of guy who… works hard.” You pushed through your teeth. “Like you need a vacation. Someone to cover you, perhaps?”
He grunted, unphased. “Look lady, jobs gone. So buy something, or get lost.”
Your mask of sweetness dropped in an instant, sliding into a scowl as you screwed up the flyer and strode off. You tossed it in the trash on your way out, purposefully missing, letting it crumple to the floor.
You barely heard him shout “hey!” as you pushed through the doors, the bell ringing loudly above your head as you went.
It wasn’t until you’d made it back to the bus stop, feet soaked in rain, daylight fading even faster, that you stumbled upon the something had been waiting for you.
Crisp, pressed dark suit, black leather shoes, a flat brimmed hat. So shockingly out of place in this part of town that you had to look twice to make sure he was real.
He smiled directly at you, perfectly politely.
“Good evening young lady.”
“Oh, hi.” You replied awkwardly.
He looked at you for a beat of silence before pulling a crisp sheet of paper from his briefcase.
“You seem like the type of educated person who would have heard about the miraculous advances happening in the world of science.” He smiled.
“Do I?” You scoffed. “Look guy, I don’t have anything to donate if that’s what you’re here for.”
“No, no.” He held a hand up dismissively. “As it happens, there is breakthrough scientific research being performed here in our very own Hawkins.”
You nodded politely, your gaze trailing down the road, begging for the bus. The last thing you wanted to hear was some sort of sermon.
“I belong to a group of scientific researchers in Indiana.” He went on. “We are hoping to deliver these breakthroughs to the public.”
Your eyes landed back on him.
“What kind of breakthroughs?” You asked, unable to smudge your curiosity.
Something to cure the affliction of being an absolute piece of shit? You thought to yourself, thinking of your back against the wall, your fathers fist balling up the neck of your shirt.
The man tapped his nose slyly. “Well now, can’t go giving away all of our secrets, can we?”
You nodded, your feet shuffling awkwardly. "Sure..." You glanced down the road again. "I'm sorry but - what exactly do you want from me? I'm just trying to get home."
There was still silence for a moment. You could feel his eyes boring into your cheek. Suddenly, he held out the paper to you. Crisp, white, printed. An official document. Stamped with a seal.
“Medical study participation?” You asked, eyebrows raised.
“We are looking for participants for a vital study.” The nameless man explained. “It’s safe.” He added, too quickly.
"Aaand you're the sorry dreg that got landed with the task of handing these out, I take it."
He chuckled. “You could say that.”
“And of course, we are offering compensation. Handsome compensation.” He looked at you knowingly, his eyes flicking down to your worn out Converse and back up to your father's jacket swimming on your frame.
“Compensation?” Your voice piqued with interest.
“Monetary.” He said simply, clasping his briefcase.
A spark lit softly inside you.
“A place to stay. For the duration of the study. Warmth, food. You’ll be taken care of.”
“What exactly would I be doing?” You asked, though the benefits were already outweighing the risks in your mind.
“A simple drug trial. The details will be discussed upon arrival.” He said, gesturing to the address at the bottom of the flyer.
Hawkins Department of Energy.
“At which time you can choose to move forward or withdraw.” His briefcase closed with a snap of finality. “We’d be glad to see you there.”
With that, he turned on his heel, striding off into the rain.
“Wait, aren’t you waiting for the -” but he was already a stretch away from you, fading down the street into the evening light. “- bus?”
In your frail hands the flyer felt like a tether. A bright, hopeful tether pulling you towards a better life. What did some measly drug trial matter if it meant you would have the cash to get out of town? To get away from him?
You didn’t stop staring at it the whole way back to your street. The bus ambled and groaned along, scattered with the usual suspects. But you were miles away, living in the piece of crisp paper, already furiously imagining the way it could help you leave it all behind like a bad dream.
The screen door wobbled on it’s rusted hinges as you pulled it back and reached for the front door handle. The air felt thick as you entered. Waiting. A mass tensed just outside of your vision.
“You’re ... late.” He slurred.
You checked your watch. “Barely. And you're drunk.”
“Late is late. Where were you?” He snarled, all grease-stained shirt and unshaven face.
“I stopped into the gas station. They had a job advertised.”
“So you wasted your time then. Kept me waiting for nothing.” He scowled.
Your stomach tightened, guts twisting at the precarious air of the living room.
He glared at you, eyes somehow both bulging and narrowed. Your throat dried, stuck with the lump you could never quite swallow in his presence.
“Don’t back talk me. Get your ass in there and make dinner.” He growled, huffing past you to sink himself down onto the sofa and into another can.
The cold air of the house was brutal against you as you slipped the jacket off. You shivered and kicked your shoes to the side of the door. You made your way into the kitchen as quietly as possible, as if you could make him forget you were there through lack of sound alone.
You rifled through the cupboards. He clearly hadn’t been to the grocery store.
“What am I meant to make? We have barely any food.” You muttered, half expecting him not to hear you.
“Figure it out.” He grunted, flicking through TV channels. “And hurry up.”
You landed on a can of pumpkin soup that had been shoved into the back of the cupboard for god knows how long. There were a few slices of stale bread left.
You did your best with it, as always. Heating the soup thoroughly, making sure not to burn the toast. You even presented it in the nicest bowl the house had - a deep white one with tall sides. Toast cut into neat triangles. Arranged meticulously on the tray.
“Here.” You said, voice thick, handing him the tray.
He didn’t thank you. As usual. Just wrapped his fat fingers around it with a scowl.
“What the hell's this?” he slurred.
“What am I, a frail child in a hospital?” He scoffed, glaring at you.
“That’s literally all we have. I left a note this morning. We need food -”
His eyes narrowed. “Needs this, needs that. Do you ever stop needing? Do you ever stop wanting? Why can’t you be grateful?” He snarled.
Your eyebrows knitted at the irony. “I -”
But he was up now, leaning down into your face, breath reeking of beer.
“You have no idea what I do for this family, you ungrateful little shit.” Specks of his spit flew at your face.
You dug your heels in, leaning up into his anger.
“What do you do?!” You shouted, furious tears welling in the creases of your eyes. “Drink? While I’m trying to get an education, trying to get a job -”
“I've given you everything, and this is the thanks I get?" He spat. "Some old soup and dry toast?” His hand came down on the tray with a crash, scattering the bread onto the floor, making the soup lurch wetly against the side of the bowl.
Your heart hammered mercilessly, throat dry as you eyed his hands, curling in anger. You swallowed hard as your throat pulsed with the many memories of his fist around it.
Soup was not worth the bruise. It was not worth an angry red welt across your face.
Your heels touched down in surrender. A tactic you'd learnt only worked half the time.
“I’m… sorry.” You forced out meekly, avoiding his glare. “I'll go out and get you something else. Just let me find some change.”
His teeth bared slightly as he looked at you. Disgust, anger, you couldn’t tell anymore. It didn't matter. It was all the same. It all made you curl into yourself, back into the smallness of a child.
“Just get out of my sight.” He snarled, sinking back down onto the sofa. “Useless. Just like your mother.”
Your fists tightened for a moment, shaking, provoked. You hated him. Pure, unfiltered hate.
But you faltered, and took the way out. The threat was too real. You turned swiftly on your heels and strode into your cold bedroom, swallowing the tide that threatened your eyes. You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t give him a reason.
You sank into your bed in the dark, fully clothed, chest heaving with silent sobs as you begged for the mercy of sleep.
Leaving him passed out on the sofa, the calling card of yet another day, was even easier.
You laced your Converse like it wasn’t a day that would change the course of your existence forever. You were nineteen. Old enough to go. You should've gone sooner. You'd wanted to, but you'd never had the means to.
You didn’t have to leave a note, but you did anyway.
Not a courtesy. Not a see you soon, not an ‘I love you’, or the promise of rewards he'd never earn.
A goodbye. A finality, a severing. An instruction of self-mercy he didn’t deserve.
I’m leaving. I won’t be returning. Take care of yourself.
Once you had your cash, you’d be gone. You’d be on the next Greyhound out of Hawkins and never look back. Relief ran through your veins at the thought of leaving it behind. Leaving him behind.
The air was still. Frosted, but quiet. Like it was holding its breath. Waiting for you to click shut the front door before breathing out.
Your fingers fidgeted in your pocket. Enough coins for a single bus trip.
It felt like a lifetime getting across town. The bus wheels came to a screeching halt at every single stop. Lurching you forward in your seat every time.
Until finally, with a shrill exhaling groan, the bus stopped where you needed it too. You smiled at the driver like the next time you’d see him, you’d have a wallet full of hope and a destination much further away.
It was only a short walk to the Hawkins Department of Energy. Your steps trembled slightly as they hit the pavement. Anticipation. Excitement. An undertone of fear, admittedly.
You approached the gate, flyer clutched in your hands.
A uniformed man leaned through the window of the guard box. The first official figure of authority.
“Can I help you ma’am?” He asked from behind his trimmed moustache, leaning down to get a better view of you.
“I’m here for the study.” You held up the paper tentatively.
You rustled in your satchel for a moment before handing him your ID card, your fingers shaking around it.
The building stood looming in the distance, shrinking you under its towering blocks and oppressive, stony squareness.
“Checks out.” He said after a moment, handing it back to you. “Go straight to the main entrance. Wait there.” He instructed. “Yeah, tell him we’ve got another one coming in.” He spoke into the radio receiver on his shoulder pad.
The large metal gates skidded open across the wide concrete driveway. You hovered for a long moment, fear suddenly dousing you ice cold.
“Look I can’t keep this gate open all day.” The guard said under his eyebrows, jerking his head towards the gate. “Are you going in or not?”
“Yes, sorry.” You muttered, shaking the anxiety from your shoulders as you strode through.
The closer you got the smaller you felt. Your frame shrank against the multi-storied colossus with each pace, until you disappeared under the shadow of it, swallowed whole.
Ten other people were already waiting in the entrance, sitting scattered in rows of clinical chairs. Your eyebrows were lofty as you took them in.
Some rough sleepers you’d seen huddled in your local alleys; unkempt beards, layers of dirty clothing. A few junkies who usually graced the street corners; gaunt, hollow-eyed, skin covered in little scabs. A couple of normal looking young adults, not unlike yourself, looking to make some extra cash.
You sank tentatively into a chair at the end, keeping your head low. You guessed you probably looked just about as rough as the worst of them. Over-baggy clothing, wrecked shoes, messy hair. Your head turned instinctively into your armpit, sniffing at the jacket.
Ugh. Beer and stale cigarettes.
Okay, you were definitely as rough as the rest, there was no point pretending.
Eventually, a woman in a pencil skirt and lab coat clacked her heels into the room, clipboard clutched to her chest. One by one, names were called. She ferried each person off down a long hallway.
Until it was just you, waiting, your heel tapping rapidly against the floor.
The sound of your name made your head jerk up. The woman gestured you down the hall as she had all the others, a too-soft smile on her face the whole way. After a few corners and long stretches, you were in an elevator.
It lurched downwards, making your stomach rise into your mouth. The woman smiled the entire way, her cheeks rounding in an unnerving fashion. When the elevator finally ground to a halt, she stepped out ahead of you.
“Just through here.” She gestured at a closed doorway.
There was a beat of awkward silence before you realized she meant for you to open the door.
“Oh, right,” you huffed, reaching for the handle.
A tiny, unassuming office.
Just a desk and a chair in the corner. A fluffy towel, a clean hospital gown and gripped socks folded on top of it. A door at the back of the room, with a lavatory sign.
She handed you the clipboard.
“Read this. It outlines what the study is, what your participation involves, and of course the compensation.” She said cheerily. “Sign your consent if you still want to take part.” Her finger tapped the dotted line at the bottom of the page.
Your eyes trailed down the paper, so wordy and official.
“Ring the bell when you’ve decided.”
She didn’t give you a chance to speak before she turned heel and closed the door behind her.
You tapped the pen against the clipboard as you paced the room, reading the disclosure.
“Okay… headed by Dr Martin Brenner…. right…” you murmured aloud. “Anaesthetic medicine study… blah blah and blah… needles… whatever… participants to be held until discharge appropriate… yeah yeah…”
You eyes fell to the compensation portion.
“Holy shit.” Your mouth fell open. You slid into the chair at the desk, eyes wide on the page. “Two hundred and fifty dollars?! No way.”
It took a moment for the number to settle in your mind. You could do more than just run away from Hawkins with that. You could run to the other side of the world, where no one would ever find you. Least of all your father.
You no longer cared what they wanted to study. They could take a whole leg off of you if they wanted to, if that's what they were paying.
A rush of pure excitement pushed through you, driving your fingertips into the pen. You scrawled your signature quickly, and practically ran to the bell. It took a few long, drawn out minutes of pacing before the woman returned.
“You’ve made a decision?” She smiled.
“Yes, yes, here,” you said, handing it to her. “I’m in.”
Her teeth flashed in a grin. “Do you have any questions?"
"No." You said quickly, shaking your head.
"Wonderful! Then welcome to the study, we are so glad to have you.”
“What now?” You asked, jittery with excited nerves.
She eyed you up and down for a moment. “The shower.” She said, nodding toward the bathroom door. “When you’re done, put the gown on.”
You were already unlacing your shoes in a rush.
“Put your clothes in the chute.” She said, pointing at a small metal door on the wall. “Ring the bell again once you're clean and changed.”
“I’ll get them back though? Afterwards?” You said, opening the chute. The hatch gave entry with a metallic squeak. You tossed your shoes down into the darkness.
The split second it took for the woman’s blank expression to curve into a smile sent a shiver through your spine. A sign you willingly ignored.
She backed out of the room, leaving you in privacy.
The shower was, in all honesty, the best thing you'd felt in years. You were used to it stark cold, at best lukewarm on a lucky day. You took your time, letting the hot steam settle deep into your lungs, letting the cascade of water soak through each inch of your skin like it could cleanse you of every misery.
But even here, in the warmth of the steam, in the comforting confines of the shower stall, it hit you. A wretched lurch that sent your heart through the floor. You, in the shower, blood diluting down the drain with the water as it poured over you, over your split lip.
Your fingers were possessed for a moment, falling over your bottom lip. Claiming the phantom wound. Feeling it reopen.
But there was no blood when they fell away. Just the pink skin for your fingertips, and the water. You shook under the heat for a while longer. Until your flesh stopped remembering. Until you were only what you were in this moment.
When you had dried, when your skin was flushed and clean, you pulled the gown and socks on and rang the bell. Your foot tapped apprehensively against the linoleum as your elbows rested on the desk, holding your head up. Eventually, the woman reappeared.
“Much better,” she smiled, sweeping into the room. “Follow me, I'll take you to the preliminary exam room.”
The further you got into the building the more clinical it felt. Your skin crawled at the strong smell of antiseptic burning through your nostrils. Your heart hammered against the confines of your chest, another warning you ignored.
“You'll be heading into the main laboratory shortly,” the woman said as you walked. “First you'll see one of the nurses, who will take your vitals. Just in here.” She ushered you into a room, entirely white-tiled and fluorescent in the way that made your teeth ache.
An older woman in a nurses uniform was already waiting. Her smile was much more convincing. It settled into deep lines on her face, like she had actually worn years of happiness. That, or she was just very practiced.
Her voice was honeyed, easing your hammering heart as she spoke. “Well aren’t you just a pretty thing,” she gushed.
Your brow furrowed, unsure how to respond. When you didn't, she moved on, making you confirm your name and date of birth first.
“Now, come and step on the scale for me would you dear?”
You stepped on and watched as she adjusted the beam.
“Do you know your blood type?” She asked, scribbling down your weight.
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” You shrugged.
“No matter. Hold out your arm.”
She slid the cuff around your bicep and took your blood pressure.
“Hmm. A little low.” She noted down. “How’s your hydration? Your diet?”
“Black unsweetened coffee and stale bread, lately.” You muttered.
Her face as rigid. “That’s not ideal.”
“That’s all we had.” You shrugged.
She eyed you from behind her glasses for a second, searching your face. You didn’t offer anymore insight. Frankly, it was none of her business.
“I’m just here for the study. Well… the money. I don’t need… help. I don’t need pity.” You said quickly. “I just need to get this done so I can go.”
“I understand,” she smiled sadly, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.”
Something about the words she chose ricocheted around your brain like a rogue bullet.
After a few more basic tests and a blood draw, you were finally done.
“The doctor will be around shortly with next steps,” she said, reviewing your notes a final time. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You shimmied up onto the bed as she left the room, crossing your legs at the ankles, letting yourself sink backwards into the plush pillow. Even this clinical, sterile room with its white walls and cold linoleum floors felt like the master bedroom of a New York penthouse compared to the squalor you were used to.
Your head sunk back further. The pillow was so thick, so soft around your skull, cradling you like a precious ceramic. You were almost lulled into sleep, until the click of the door made your eyes snap open.
A man strode in, your name bright and cheerful on his lips like you were an old friend. Tall, aged, white-haired. Holding himself square in the shoulders, all sharp angles and the ghost of a once-handsome man on his face. You sat up straight, swinging your legs over the bed, holding onto the edge of it.
“Good morning, my name is Doctor Martin Brenner.” He smiled, his teeth impossibly white.
You held out your hand, which he glanced down at for a moment before shaking. “Nice to meet you Doctor Brenner.”
He eyed you for a beat before speaking.
“Whatever has led you to us today, I am going to make sure that this study is as beneficial for you as it is for us.” He smiled.
Your skin couldn’t help but crawl slightly at the tone of his voice. Sinister covered in soft honey.
“Just tell me what I have to do,” you shrugged.
His gaze was searching, inquisitive. “First, tell me why you’re here today.”
“A man gave me a flyer.” You answered flatly.
“Yes. But why did you choose to come? Are you interested in the scientific field? The medical field?”
You chewed your words for a moment. “Look, Doctor Brenner, it’s not that I’m not interested in those things. But to tell you the honest truth...” your teeth indented into your lip. “I just need the money.”
He smiled. Understanding, non-judgmental.
“I see. And what do you hope to achieve with it?”
“To get out of here.” You answered too quickly. Too emotionally.
Dr Brenner raised an eyebrow, saying nothing. His silence seemed to force more words from your throat without your permission.
“Out of Hawkins. Things here are… bad. For me.” You said slowly. Your neck twisted of it's own accord as you said it.
His eyes flicked down to your neck for a moment, to the barely visible, fading purple finger marks on the side of it. He tilted his head a fraction.
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
You felt odd inside. You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had shown you a single shred of sympathy. Not since your mother. It made you uncomfortable in the warmest way.
You swallowed thickly, trying to simultaneously land softly in his sympathy and avoid the landing at all costs.
“It’s nothing, I - just need to get out of here.” You said hastily, choking down what was beginning to rise through your throat.
“Well, I expect you have read the documentation thoroughly." He stated, though it was half a question.
"Yes." You curled your lips awkwardly. You hadn’t.
“Then you know you’ll be here for at least two days, enough time for us to collect sufficient data about your reaction to the anaesthetic drugs.”
You nodded. “Yeah, great. Of course. So what do I need to do?” Your voice was strained, apprehensive to start.
Brenner slid his hands into his trouser pockets, pacing casually as he spoke.
“We'll administer the drugs, monitor your vitals and reactions, collect our data, and discharge you once you're functioning normally again. Simple.” He stopped pacing. "You'll receive your compensation on the way out."
“Is that... it? You’re just going to knock me out? You’re not going to… take all my bones out and put them back in upside down or something?”
That elicited a small chuckle.
“This was explained in the paperwork...” he said pointedly. “But no. You have nothing of the sort to worry about.”
“I just thought… well it’s a lot of money. I assumed it would be something… harder?”
He paused for a moment. “We don’t know exactly how you’ll react to the drugs.” He said pointedly. “There are… some risks. But we expect these are minimal. You’re healthy, you’re young. Parameters that predict you’ll have a straightforward experience.”
“Right, yeah, sure.” You nodded, not really caring.
"Do you have any questions, any concerns?" His expression was open, it seemed genuine.
"No." You said finally, shaking your head.
"Excellent. In that case, you can follow me."
He held out his hand. You stared at it for a moment, that creeping shiver returning to trail up your spine. You ignored the feeling and took his hand anyway, letting him lead you from the room, his face still painted with a friendly smile.
The room he took you too was bigger, more sterile in a way that made your freshly cleaned body immediately feel like a germ, infecting the place.
A white-sheeted hospital bed sat like a stage in the middle of the room, lit by large, steel-domed lights.
“How… surgical.” You observed, trying to squash the sudden rush of anxiety.
“I know I know, it looks intimidating. We aren't the best hosts of comfort in this field." Dr Brenner chuckled. "But don’t worry. You're in good hands.”
Only then did your gaze drift further into the room, noting the rest of the staff. You guessed they were all doctors, or nurses, or pharmacists of some description that was beyond you. Lab-coated, gloved, masked. Nothing out of the ordinary for what you were here for.
"Now, if you don't mind," Dr Brenner gestured to the bed with a gentle nod. "We can get started."
You stepped forward, hospital socks gripping against the sterile linoleum. There was a monitor and drip set up next to the bed. A metal trolley next to it. A steel tray on top. An IV line with a snaking tube, waiting eagerly for your veins. A tiny glass vial with a label too small to read.
With a steadying inhale you turned and boosted yourself up onto the bed. Dr Brenner was smiling reassuringly down at you, his lips tautly curved through the lines on his aging face. One of the other doctors approached the other side of the bed and straightened out your arm. His gloved finger palpated the crease in your elbow, searching.
A nurse was at your head, placing sticky discs onto your temples. Your eyes darted up to her nervously.
"Just to measure your neural activity." Dr Brenner smiled again, watching your expressions like a hawk.
You nodded in a single, strained movement, acutely aware of how ice cold you felt. How goose-pimpled and over-sensitive your skin was. The nurse clipped a pulse oximeter onto your finger. The monitor lit up with your heartbeat, snaking neon green peaks and troughs.
"Nurse Helen here will give you some oxygen now," Brenner said, nodding his head at her.
"Deep breaths," she said from behind her mask, pressing the shaped rubber over your mouth and nose.
It had the opposite effect. You felt trapped, claustrophobic, tight in the chest.
"And Doctor Wilson here will insert your IV," Brenner continued.
You winced slightly as you felt the sharp scratch. The needle pierced the blue-green street in the crease of your elbow and retracted, leaving the cannula buried deep in your vein. He taped it down.
"All done," Dr Wilson said cheerily.
Their faces were slowly becoming eerie as they all looked down at you. Your stomach twisted, trying to flee your body.
"Now, we will administer the anaesthetic," Brenner said. "We'll monitor all of your vitals, and in a few hours, you'll wake up. Simple as that." He smiled.
Your eyes slid over their faces. The clink of the glass vial was the loudest sound in the room. You felt the IV point in your vein grow cold as the drug was pushed through the line.
It seemed simple. You were not scared of needles, or doctors, or sterile linoleum. You were not allergic to the hands of nurses or avoidant of the steady beep of your own heart.
But as you stared up into blinding lights above you, you felt something staring back. Heavy, consuming, inescapable. Bearing down on you as your eyes rolled up in your head, as your vision faded into shades of black. A frozen shard straight through your middle, a sword of pure ice. Your body knew it well, but had never known it like this.
You weren’t here. Not really.
You were somewhere in between for a while. Maybe forever. At least, that’s how it felt. Minutes, hours, days. You didn’t know.
All you knew was an endless, gaping darkness. Your limbs were burning, scorching waves of agony ripping through every nerve. You were falling, thrashing out wildly at the pain, mouth held wide open in a throat-ripping scream.
You were careening backwards through endless, pulsating layers of twisted memories, dreams, nightmares. All curling and writhing like snakes around you.
Until you hit something solid. The ground, maybe, but it was too dark to tell. Your lungs arrested as the oxygen was ripped from you by the sudden force. It took a second to realize you could still breathe. Fiery rivers of pain kept throbbing through your dead-weight limbs.
After a lifetime, there was something else.
Light. Shrouded specks of light littered sparsely through what you realized were your eyelashes. They peeled back like a stuck Band-Aid, your pupils blown underneath the harsh fluorescents above you as they throbbed into your blurred vision.
Then you heard the beeping. Steady beeping. Evidence of your still-beating heart. You felt the wires, snaking from your chest and arms. A crown of them laid over your skull. There was a pillow behind you, a firm mattress.
You tried to lift your head, but it was a cinder block.
“Don’t move too fast.” Your hazy eyes found the figure of a nurse, white-capped with a high voice.
“Where -” your voice was cracked, you had to force it from your throat. “- am I?”
“The infirmary. You may feel confused as you’re waking up.” The nurse said matter-of-factly.
“What... happened?” Your concrete laden head pulsed with pain. “Did I… hit my head?”
She stepped closer to you, chart in hand, with a look that read concerned at the edges. She studied your contorted face for a moment.
“Doctor Brenner will have to answer your questions. For now, try to rest.”
Your brow knitted, eyes squinting against the pain. “Who?”
She stepped out of the white tiled room. Her voice carried back through the crack in the door in scattered words, making your head crane around.
“Awake …. but she’s …. doesn’t remember ….”
A cracked groan tumbled from your lips. They were parched, ripped, tinged with the taste of old blood. Every one of your teeth felt electric and misplaced in your mouth.
Even your thoughts were strained. Scattered and disjointed like you’d forgotten words. Your hand rose to your head. Your hair was buzzed, clipped short, your felt neck naked against the pillow. Was it always like that?
Eventually the door opened fully. You craned your head around, wincing in pain. A man. Tall, thin, white haired. His face was apprehensive as he looked down at you, broken on the bed.
“You’re awake,” he said factually.
You had to think hard in order to form words. Your brain felt shrouded, packed in a layer of sawdust.
“You don’t remember?” He asked quizzically.
Your eyes dragged over his face, searched his irises. Your mind pulsed with a painful image, an image of you taking the man's hand.
“No...” you said slowly, your eyes squeezing with effort.
Brenner’s eyes were intense, like they were trying to will the answer from you. Your mind pulsed again, this time with the image of him smiling warmly.
“Are you a doctor?” You frowned.
“I am,” he said, eyes still tight on you. “But more importantly, I’m your Papa.”
“Papa?” You rasped. “Papa…” the word felt strange, misplaced on your tongue.
You still couldn't place him. There was nothing, absolutely nothing left in you apart from a few disjointed faces and the remnant pain of burning in your limbs.
“Where… am I?” Your voice was ragged, your chest heaving with quickening breaths of panic.
He didn’t answer directly.
You stared blankly at the ceiling. “Pain. Burning. Everywhere.”
He stepped closer by a single pace, eyeing you like a hawk. “How do you feel now?”
“I still feel it... it’s like my insides are on fire. And… my head… feels so full.” You groaned. “How long have I been… asleep?”
“Two weeks.” He made his voice was gentler, like it would soften the answer.
“Two… weeks?” You repeated, suddenly alight with a flash of panic.
He was rigid in his position, not coming any closer to you, just eyeing your face as it contorted through a pipeline of confusion, fear, effort, panic.
“I thought you may not wake.”
“But what… happened?” You asked, even more confused, tears beginning to well in your eyes. You tried to push yourself up, but your wrists gave way.
He seemed to consider his answer carefully before speaking. “What do you think happened?”
You stared at him, growing more frustrated. Couldn’t he just tell you? You felt a sudden lurching in your stomach as you lay there. Your ears began ringing with a shrill, shrieking sound.
“I don't know,” you choked out. "I was somewhere… falling backwards... and then I woke up.”
“You don't remember anything?” He asked skeptically.
You blinked at him, vacant, trying to fill in the void between images.
His demeanor shifted. Not dramatically, just enough to make you notice. Like you’d opened a door he’d been waiting outside of.
“You were in a terrible accident.” He said, his voice gentler now.
Your heart kicked with panic. "What?"
“You suffered a traumatic brain injury falling from a great height.” He said sadly, genuinely.
He approached you now, pulling up a chair next to your bed. You swallowed, throat dry.
“It's a miracle you survived.” He looked at the pads stuck to your temples, at the wires, at the monitor next to your bed. “Your brain was damaged.”
“Damaged how?” You found the strength to push yourself up, your wrists finally cooperating.
The wires snaking all over your body suddenly felt like ropes, bindings, holding you hostage.
“We’re not certain of the extent just yet. You’re still being monitored.” He said. “But you don't remember anything? Nothing at all from before?” He asked again, his gaze intense.
Your eyes squeezed shut in effort, confused tears streaming down your cheeks. There was nothing. Nothing but an empty space of howling blackness.
You stared through him, trying desperately to put the phantom pieces together. Trying desperately to make sense of his words when your mind was so void of information.
He exhaled a breath as he studied you.
You blinked rapidly, trying to place it, trying to form a name in your mind, in your mouth.
“I - no.” You were sobbing now, hot tears flowing endlessly.
Brenner placed a cold hand on yours, an act of reassurance that did not land. You flinched at his touch.
“It's going to be okay. I'm here to help you get better.”
“Am I in a hospital?” You asked, head throbbing as you tried to make sense of it.
“In a manner of speaking.”
You were silent, staring down at the blankets, fingernail picking at a thread. “I don’t understand.” You said quietly, voice breaking.
“This is not just a hospital. It is your home.” Brenner smiled, taking your hand gently.
“I live here?” You asked, eyes glancing around the sterile environment.
“Yes. With me, your Papa. And your brothers and sisters.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. “Brothers and sisters?”
“In time, you will see them.” He said reassuringly. “For now, you must rest. Your mind must recover, before you can join them.”
Something seemed to be humming behind your brain. Pulsing, a slow static.
Brenner stood up then, cupping your hand for a moment before placing it back down on the bed gently.
Your eyes lingered on him, trying to make sense of his face, his eyes that looked kind but were framed with an edge of something you couldn’t make out.
“Rest. I will return in the morning,” he smiled, turning to go.
You watched the back of his square shoulders retreat when the question suddenly returned to you, hot and urgent.
“Papa, wait -” He halted as his hand was reaching for the door. “What… what is my name?”
He turned only his head. A slow, controlled movement, until his eye line met yours.
He strode through the door. It clicked shut behind him, leaving you with nothing but the hum of the fluorescent lights and the mess of your own mind.
Nineteen… Nineteen? You thought desperately. The name rolled around in your brain like it wouldn't stick.
You sounded it out, pushing the syllables through your teeth. “Nine - teen...”
Your other hand came up from beneath the blanket to cradle your head in its confusion. It was only when you lowered your arm to wipe your wet cheeks that you saw it.
Inked, black and permanent on the inside of your wrist. Your fingertips whispered over the raised skin.
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