Who: Avram [Narrative] Where: His Room When: 8:20 a.m.
Avram woke slowly from a thick, sticky, seabed kind of sleep. A heavy dose of Klonopin did that sometimes, sleep where he felt like he might have stopped breathing for awhile, sleep that gave him a little jolt of relief when he woke up. Like the small prayer his mother had taught him when he was a kid, which he hadn't actually said in decades and whose words he couldn't remember now. For you have restored my soul to me with kindness. Klonopin always fucked with his memory too, made the last half hour or so before bedtime a blur. Back in college when he wasn't used to the meds yet, mixing and matching them in desperation, he'd slept for about eighteen hours straight and then woke up to lurch through the living room in his shared apartment, walking right through a cozy couch date his roommate was having with a girl, slurring fffffuck man what time is it, who's that? yeah don't mind me, I'm fucking high, and stumbled back to bed with a bottle of Stella. Which he didn't even have time to open before crashing again.
But none of that was quite right, because he hadn't had a panic attack yesterday—just a normal day, he'd been downtown, he'd stopped at a food truck to get a sandwich, and...
Okay. No. His eyelids finally cracked open and this wasn't home. The bed was way too goddamn nice, for one thing: lately he'd been sleeping on the couch in the living room where Dad's hospital bed was set up, just so that he'd be close if something happened. Dad wasn't together enough to use the buzzer anymore to call him. The sound of the beeping IV had been so familiar that he hadn't even noticed it, but the pump was hooked up to his own arm instead. Hospital gown, the plastic rustle of an ID bracelet.
Well, that's it, you must have had a seizure in town or something, it's finally happening. Almost made it to forty, though, good job.
But as his head cleared he realised that was stupid: the cushy bed and nice room didn't make sense with the IV. What was even in that thing? The bag wasn't labelled. He sat up slowly, checking the bracelet to see if it named a hospital or told him anything else useful. Margolis, Avram. Subject #4250ACO2. A very obvious camera on the ceiling, and a box on the floor, just a little too far for the IV tubing to reach.
No call button and the IV bag was practically empty, so even if this was some kind of legit treatment that he'd needed or consented to (unlikely), he figured it was okay to take the catheter out. Which he knew how to do, in theory, after watching so many times. He turned off the pump and closed the roller clamp, then managed to rip the tape off. Assholes had used more than they needed, he thought, just to make sure he ripped some hair out. He eased the needle out and bent his arm to put pressure on the site, staring blearily around the room. Going by the view from the window, he wasn't in the city anymore.
The box, it turned out, just held his clothes, which was a little less momentous than its OPEN ME label would suggest, although his watch was missing. Whatever. The door was locked, so apparently he'd just have to wait for someone to show up and explain. Or start the whole serial-murder process, if that was the deal. "Hello, I'm Jeffrey, I'll be your murderer this evening..."
The desk had a computer, with a blinking light, but apparently only intranet. There were other people here. They didn't seem happy.
"This is not good," Avram mumbled to himself as he sat down.