Eleven - It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again

The pounding, dull throbbing resumed as his brain threatened to crack through his skull. Searing jets of agony burning through his esophagus. Harry'd had enough pain in this last week to last a lifetime. He nearly regretted waking up each day because the sunlight always presented itself to him in a package of pain. Surely death was a superior alternative to this daily torture.

Harry cleared his throat and coughed, sending more frenzied kettledrums loose in his head. Moaning, he opened his eyes and blinked to clear the fuzz from his vision. Harry slowly took in his surroundings with the trepidation of a man wondering what nightmarish event would befall him next. In the darkened room, he noticed a large curtain on one side of his bed and a broad, heavy wooden door with a metal kick plate and an ADA-approved handle doorknob. On both sides and at the foot of his bed he could see rails. He looked up and saw a television suspended from a platform bolted into the wall.

Harry ventured to raise his hand to his forehead so he could massage away the morning’s daily migraine. He was met with stabbing pains in his shoulder, so he relaxed his arm again. He raised his head to examine the restraints, and was surprised to find there were none. The pain in his shoulders was caused by an injury, probably from being handcuffed behind his back and suspended for hours by the wrists. His shoulders had been hyper-extended, possibly dislocated. They seemed to be in place now, but they weren’t happy to move. His left hand was taped to an aluminum brace, which was supporting his purple, swollen pinky finger.

Harry realized he had landed alive in a hospital room. Although he was in pain, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, slowly trying out all his muscles to see if he could stand. He really needed to take a leak, and noticed there was no catheter. He recalled vague images of someone picking him up, forcing him to walk, helping him in the bathroom. While he became accustomed to sitting up, he felt his face, running his fingers along the bandages, feeling the bumps where bruises had been building up to heal the blows to his head.

“I must really be a lovely sight. I should make sure I take a picture so Diane will have something to remember me by.”

Harry’s voice was very scratchy, and it hurt to talk. Harry slid down to the floor and tested his legs. They seemed to work just fine, and he stood up and stretched to his full height. He had to be careful not to topple over when gravity made the blood run out of his head. “Whoa!” he said as he leaned on the bed for support.

The toilet in the bathroom flushed, and Harry froze. His eyes flitted to the counter and table, looking for a weapon of defense. He had a vision of the movie “Pulp Fiction,” where Vincent comes out of the can while staking out Butch’s apartment to assassinate him, only to find Butch facing him with his own gun, which he had carelessly left on the counter in the kitchen. Oh, how he wished he had that gun right now as he heard the water running in the sink, the paper towel, the crumpling as it hit the trash, and the click of the door opening.