Consciousness returned to me in jagged, disorienting fragments.
I am Holly, thirty-two years old, and six weeks ago, I clawed my way out of the darkness in a recovery room that reeked of industrial antiseptic and cold, indifferent steel.
The fog of anesthesia clung to my brain like a heavy, waterlogged wool blanket, muffling my thoughts and warping time. My throat felt raw, as if I had swallowed a handful of crushed gravel—a brutal souvenir from the intubation tube. But that discomfort was a mere whisper compared to the scream radiating from my lower back. The site of my nine-hour spinal fusion surgery throbbed with a dull, rhythmic agony, a bass drum beating against my skeleton.
A nurse materialized above me, a blurred angel in blue scrubs checking the bioluminescent pulse of the monitors.
“Welcome back,” she whispered, her voice professional yet gentle. “Take your time. The world is still here.”
