Lost and Found
Written by Chi Nguyen
Lost and Found
A short story
I shot up from my bed, banging my head on the cold, solid wall. My heart pounded, my breath shallowed, and cold sweat trickled in little streams down my back. My eyes quickly darted around the room. Where was I? I laid on a mattress with a simple blanket. I was dressed in bright, cyan flannelette pyjamas. These clothes certainly weren’t mine, that was the only thing I was sure of for now.
The door flung open, flushing cold, stark, white light into my dark secluded room. A flustered nurse hurried in. I slipped out of bed, my warm feet contracting, as they contacted the cold, biting linoleum floor. She came in with a vitals machine; a blood pressure monitor and heart rate tracker in each hand. I examined myself - my arms, my legs, checked for any pain within any part of my body, but there was simply none.
Her cold hands wrapped around my arm, securing the blood pressure fabric pump around my upper arm. The tight contraction and the sudden release from the blood pressure monitor felt oddly soothing. It was like I knew exactly what was going to happen, it was going to squeeze my arm and then gently release. 97 BPM. Sufficient. Normal range. Little on the high side, but it made sense considering the manner in which I woke from my slumber. The nurse then proceeded to clip a small plastic device on my pointer finger, it looked almost like a flattened clothespin. She whipped a pen out of nowhere and proceeded to write a few numbers on a small sticky note. “All clear,” she grinned, “Beatrice, would you like to join us for breakfast?” I stared blankly at her. My stomach felt empty; I couldn’t recall the last time I had something to eat or even drink. Lips dry and cracked with my throat parched, I could barely produce a response. The nurse slowly guided the vitals machine out of what appeared to be my room and gestured to the common room table.
Stepping out, I was greeted by a cold and melancholy atmosphere. I felt a scratchy feeling on my wrist where a bright red paper hospital band detailed my name, birthdate and allergies. All the other patients in the ward had a general miserable expression painted across their faces. I noticed a small number of them had bandages wrapped around their forearms as they continued to scoop milk and cereal out of their plastic bowls. Others had thin, green and transparent tubes up their noses and across their cheek. That made sense, some people here had some sort of arm injury or digestive issue, of course they needed to be in a hospital, but why was I in a hospital ward with them, the same one too? Proceeding to the kitchenette, I grabbed a slice of wholemeal toast, popping it in the toaster.
The ticking of the toaster echoed through the whole room. I’d never heard a room so silent. The sound of breathing could barely be heard across the resonating silence. Everyone in the room seemed either had a pained expression or a blank face. Why was I here? Why were they here and why was the whole room so glum and simply depressing? Breakfast in my family was always and had always been such a busy, bustling and chaotic meal. For every breakfast, we would have elaborate spreads of breads, pastries and fruit scattered elegantly across our long, marble kitchen island. I honestly never thought I’d ever see such a simple and frankly boring breakfast. I glanced around the room, hoping for my eye to catch something interesting, but was quickly reminded of the dullness of my environment.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice called. My head swept around quickly, eager to have a normal conversation with someone for once. There wasn’t a single person close enough in proximity to me to even say an audible word. Everyone else was still seated at the breakfast table, solemnly eating their grey, lacklustre breakfasts. My forehead furrowed in confusion. Was that just in my head? Perhaps I was so desperate for any social interaction, my mind had made up its own conversation. I chuckled. I was met with all the eyes from the breakfast table. They looked at me with mixed expressions; some with frustration, some with longing and others with puzzlement. Was it illegal to laugh here too? I stared at the floor, hoping not to draw any more attention than I already had.
The unmistakable pop of finished toast from the toaster once again reverberated across the room. A look of shame across my face, I was mad at myself for breaking the deafening silence. I quickly grabbed a butter packet. Spreading the yellow butter across the warm, browned toast with my plastic knife, I paid attention to every detail of the butter melting into the toast, forming little pools of oily goodness. Only now did I notice that every piece of furniture here was padded with fabric. There was only plastic cutlery and crockery available for meals. The decor across the hospital ward was very minimalistic, not a single object in the room had an unnecessary purpose.
Only then had I fallen into the realisation of where I was. I’d heard descriptive stories and recollections of people who had visited what remained of their loved ones in such wards. Admittedly, I had seen a few movies and read a few books which described these taboo and forbidden locations. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, that was exactly the book I had read only a few months earlier. A psychiatric institution, that was where I appeared to be in. It was much nicer than described in all the media and the nurses seemed to be kind also.