My head feels as if it is stuffed with cotton, and my body aches with pain. I don't even want to open my eyes for fear of the pain it might cause.
Where am I? I wonder. I groan in pain. Last thing I remember is running towards the door and then hearing a sickening crunch, I think to myself. I open my eyes finally, and to my surprise (and delight) it does not hurt to have them open! At first everything is blurry, but my eyes soon find focus once again. Once again I wonder: Where am I?
The room around me is painted in soothing, muted colors that, frankly, make me want to empty my stomach. There is medical equipment within my line of sight. The sight of these machines makes me shudder in fear, cascading my mind and body with new and more pain. Emotions such as fear, anger, and indignity rush through my veins.
A hospital! I am in a hospital, I realize. I want to scream, but I know I can't, because hat would only garner me even more unwanted attention. Unwanted attention inevitably leads to stares, disgust, and ridicule—all things I want to avoid at all costs. I do not want to be exhibited, experimented on, or displayed as an attraction or medical curiosity! Especially as I cannot feel the familiar weight of my mask… I wonder what they think of my face, or rather, lack of one…
A knock sounds at the door. I try to speak, but I am still too weak and my throat is too sore to even do that… A man enters, dressed in doctoral clothes and accessories. I blink my eyes. He looks at me directly, but he is not staring…yet.
"You're awake!" He says cheerfully. I nod slightly.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. He is beginning to annoy me with his cheerfulness.
"Painful," I respond. I am horrified by the sound of my voice. It is barely a rasp; barely audible, and so scratchy it is painful to my sensitive ears. Tears start to roll down my face, welling out of my deep eye sockets, in sorrow for the loss of my powerful voice.
"Soon as you are able to be off the life support long enough to withstand transport, we will move you to a retreat in the country to recover. Normally we wouldn't do it without permission or for just anybody, but seeing your past, status, and quite frankly, your circumstances (in other words, your looks), it would be safe to say that you would want and need your privacy, correct?" He states.
"What kind of retreat? Is it truly private? Secluded?"
"To be frank, as the Americans say, it is private and secluded, mademoiselle, but is also a recovery and rehab center for burn and accident victims. However, each patient does not need to see each other, and many times they would rather not be seen. We will put you in a 'cottage' by yourself. That is, if you accept," he offers so temptingly.
"Sounds reasonable," I return. "I accept your offer."
"We'll do it in a couple days, so try and get some rest."
As he leaves, he closes the drapes and turns the lights off. I find I am very, very tired. The soft sounds of the machines make a strange, mechanical lullaby.