You wake screaming, the first sound you've made in days. You scream his name, desperate sobs that you choke out, throat raw in the way that betrays how long you've been calling for him. Sheets are twisted around your body, trapping you there in the dark, memories of flame and blood clinging to your mind. You remember that he's dead, dead and gone, and it only makes you scream more with the memory of his blood under your hands, the scent of it in your nose. Unseen footsteps hurry toward you, fingers grab your arms, try to trap your thrashing, and while you normally do not have the strength to fight anyone, it is a struggle for whoever it is trying to restrain you. Instead comes the sharp prick of a needle, and the swiftly spreading heaviness of drugs.
Eventually the high dose of drugs takes effect, and you end up with restraints around your wrists and ankles, voices murmuring low words in the room, echoing off emptiness and clean tile. You try to respond, but your tongue feels drug-thick and none of the words make sense anyway.