THIS IS MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT WRITING FICTION FOR 'BONES,' AND I'M NOT EVEN SURE IF ANYONE CARES ABOUT BRENNAN'S LOST WEDNESDAY! PLEASE REVIEW TO LET ME KNOW! AND, OF COURSE, TO OFFER CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM AND SUGGESTIONS.
THE ENTIRE TEXT OF CHAPTER ONE IS TAKEN FROM THE EPISODE 'THE MAN IN THE MORGUE', SIMPLY TO SET THE SCENE. I PROMISE TO BE MORE CREATIVE IN FUTURE!
ONE
Thursday
Brennan lies on a cold, hard surface. Images flash as she jerks awake: blood, a shroud, pulsating flesh, snakes, and more blood. Her eyes open suddenly and she turns over on her side. A cursory glance around tells her that she's in a bathroom; there's a sink and a tub, and the surface beneath her is a white tiled floor. Gradually she realizes that she's sticky, parts of her are warm and wet, other parts feel crusted over, almost in a shell.
The pool of blood in the floor is disconcerting indeed. Since she spends so much time around human remains, putting pieces of puzzles together, it takes her a moment to consider that the blood might be her own. More images flash: blood dripping from the walls, the hands of a man, covered in the red sticky substance. Whose hands?
She can feel that there's a gash on her head and surmises that's where the blood has come from, as she feels, at the moment, no other serious injury. The head bleeds profusely, which maks head injuries look worse than they are. Satisfied that standing up will not cause her to pass out, she places her hand on a nearby chest and attempts to push herself up. She fails. Breath-stealing pain shoots through her hand, wrist and arm. With her left hand, she gently feels the injury to her right. This cursory examination tells her that her right distal radius has been fractured. An x-ray would tell her how, possibly why.
She uses her right elbow to do what the wrist could not. She gets to her feet and looks into the mirror. A glance tells her what she already knows: gash on her head, lots of blood. But it also reaveals a glimpse of herself as she had never intended to look. She looks helpless, covered in blood, victimized. A flush of surprise and how did this happen comes over her, but as yet, she is too shocked to feel anger. And then she notices her left ear. The earring is gone – her mother's earring. A vague memory of a knife, and of fleeing down stairs comes to her. No answers, only flashes.
The phone begins to ring. In a very un-Brennan-like way, she decides she must answer it, as it might tell her what the hell happened, and what to do next. As she makes her way slowly out of the bathroom and across a spacious living room, she is relieved to realize that she recognizes it – it is the suite she checked into last Friday. She's in New Orleans, on vacation, helping identify Katrina victims. It's something at least...
She sits carefully down in the sofa, and picks up the phone.
Without her having to say hello, a woman's voice says, "Dr. Brennan, your airport shuttle is here."
"What?" she asks. It comes to her – she's not ready to leave this city yet. She tells the woman, "No, um, my flight isn't until Thursday."
"Today is Thursday, Dr. Brennan," she is told, with a slight air of impatience.
Brennan is frozen for a few seconds. She thinks back: Graham knocked a tray of instruments to the floor. That was Tuesday. Blank. Then she woke up here.
She asks herself, as her mind clouds up even more, "What happened to Wednesday?"