Three - Just Glad to Be Alive

A blazing hell of light blinded Harry, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The bongo drums in his skull had resumed their Caribbean beat. He yanked his wrist on the cuffs in an attempt to rub his temples. He yelled out in pain.

“Good morning, Mr. Denby.” Nurse Ratched came away from the blinds and checked him over, poking and prodding, measuring, timing, squeezing till he shouted at her to stop. Of course, she ignored him and continued her ritualistic torture session, each time jotting notes in her journal of pain with an irritating smirk on her face.

Harry cleared his throat and composed himself. Maybe he could charm her. He has a way with the ladies. “I’m sorry, nurse. Louise, is it?”

“Mmm hmm.” She tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind her left ear, then looked at him, examining the state of his eyes. They rolled around a bit when she pulled back his recalcitrant lids. When he focused, he saw her eyes were a golden brown. Lovely. She looked like she was in her early thirties.

“Louise, my dear. Would you be so kind as to provide me with some kind of pain relief? My head is pounding. Percodan would be appreciated.”

“I’m sure it would. How about we start you with some Tylenol?”

“Let’s make sure it’s Extra Strength, at least. And my throat is sore. Would you bring me some Listerine so I could wash out those nasty germs?” Harry’s hands were shaking slightly, and he was perspiring profusely.

“All we got is water with baking soda. It’ll do the trick, Mr. Denby.”

Harry groaned. His mood was black, and the reality of his situation began to intrude on his consciousness. They were drying him out, against his will. He was going to be under their influence for the next two months. His face itched under two days’ growth, and he could smell his own stink. He had not been aware of it before now, but his perspiration had a distinctly sweet musky smell, like stale whiskey. He tried to pull his knees up to his chest so he could curl his lower back, which had resumed its dull aching. He was answered with sharp stabbing pains when his legs, which had been surreptitiously strapped to the bed while he slept, refused to obey his command. He gasped.

Nurse Ratched managed to plunge him into the pit of humiliation when she disinterestedly examined his catheter and then removed a bag that was bulging with urine. She looked more impressed by the volume in the bag than she was by the organ to which it was connected. She gently removed the catheter, and he was surprised that it was actually a … pleasurable … experience. He sighed long and slow. His cheeks warmed when he noticed a smirk on her face. Cruelty, thy name is Louise.