This is something I've been working on for a while, but have not worked on in a long time. I've read some books that change my attitude towards some of it, so I'm coming back to it with a fresh viewpoint. I've thought about rewriting it in the third person, but I don't know that I want to give the guy a name to begin the story. I guess I could just use pronouns.
Again, some of these are based on actual events, while this one is obviously not.
Edit: Worked on some tense stuff and changed the tone. The narrator's tone didn't seem consistent from the introduction to the body, so I've changed it some.
I'm 32 years old and I live by myself. I work at a huge retail chain and I have no life. The money's not great where I work, but the hours are long. At the moment, I'm walking the ten miles to my one bedroom apartment, because my morning shift at the store is over. It's raining and my car is in the shop, and the buses don't run today, and I can't afford a taxi. When I get home, I have a few hours of television to look forward to, before I stay up late on the computer and wake up tomorrow to do it all over again. My glasses are wet, just like the rest of me, and I can barely see. I could cry and no one would know, because it's so wet; and I want to, because it's cold and wet, and I have nothing to live for. I resist the urge, because men aren't supposed to cry, or at least that's what my father always told me. He didn't tell me that my life would degrade into a pathetic string of events just uneventful enough to be short of a tragedy, but also so devoid of activity that it couldn't be anything else. I'm thinking of these things as I cross the street to get to my lonely quarters. Trying not to cry, I pull my hands close to my shivering body. I barely have time to take my last breath before the oncoming car hits me. This should be the end, but it's not.
I wake up, enclosed in a space so tight I feel claustrophobic. Around me is a glass enclosure not unlike an oxygen tent. The glass is arranged in plates that seem to be intricately wedged together with a series of bolts. I'm wrapped tight in what seems to be medical bandages; they cover my entire body, though I feel like I can move. My head is also wrapped up with a heavy object on top of it, like a makeshift helmet. I imagine I'm in a hospital. Surely I'm hurt if I'm wrapped up like this. My body feels lighter than it was, and looks lighter from what I can see, no doubt a result of a period of convalescence. I have several tubes hooked up to my body as well. Although my body is lighter, my head feels heavier. I seem to have more hair on my head, another indication I have been out of it for some time.
As I wake up, alarms sound and machines begin to stir. From my left, an elderly man enters the room, but he doesn't look like any traditional doctor or nurse. He's wearing stitched-together clothing that looks homemade. He has large glasses and looks at me with a shocked expression. The old man quickly checks the beeping machines and motions me to stay still. I try to respond, but I've lost my voice; it's probably been since I was awake. The machines he's working at frantically are rusted and look more like appliances than hospital equipment. I stay lying down like he told me to and watch him closely. He pulls levers and presses buttons until I feel a pressure in the atmosphere lifted that I hadn't even noticed. I feel freer, but I still remain in bed. My new elderly friend presses a final button and then seems content to watch me in my clear prison. As he watches, the walls of the small bed area begin to buckle and the interconnecting plates move apart. Instead of a hiss I hear a pop, as the bolts slowly unscrew and the plates separate.
The walls slowly complete their separation and pull apart. As I'm exposed to the naked air for the first time, my caretaker slowly walks up. He enters the bubble and slowly reaches under my bed to pull out what looks like an oxygen mask. He places it around my face and head; then he begins to remove the tubes that are connected to my body. There is not an unbearable amount of pain as he removes the tubes, but I wince just the same, weak as I am. I feel a little afraid of my apparent savior, although I feel vaguely safe. He puts his hands to my covered forehead and seems satisfied by what he feels. At first I think it's a simple medical gesture, but I soon realize he is showing concern. I've never met this man, but I guess he cares for all of his patients.
When all of the tubes are finally removed, the doctor cleans the small breaks on my skin. The skin that is treated looks like it's healing already. When this gentler application is finished, the elderly man finally speaks.
"I'm going to remove the dressings on your head, so I just need you to sit up for a moment, okay?" He speaks as if to a child, and I wonder what state I was in when I arrived at this weird hospice. I nod my head, even as I do as he asks; my earlier attempt at speech had been met with a lack of success. The man carefully removes the bandages from my head until I feel a slight jerk to my head. The helmet I felt earlier had been removed. Then, he starts to remove another layer of wraps and stops to talk to me again.
"If you are up to it and sufficiently refreshed I will remove your breathing assistant, so I can get all of the tape off, all right?" I indicate that this is fine, even as I continue to notice the peculiar nature of his words. The good doctor removes my "breathing assistant" and continues to undo the trappings of my medical enslavement. As he finishes this procedure, long locks of dark hair fall to either side of my face. I felt like I had more hair, but I must have been under a long time for my hair to get this long. The doctor put a hand to my chin and inclined my face to meet his. His face is lined with the marks of age, but it was clear he had once been a handsome man. He looks at me compassionately and addresses me in a most particularly strange manner compared to what I had ever been used to.
"Good morning . . . daughter."
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