I wake up.

And it's like escaping one nightmare—
Only to step straight into another.

In my dreams, I feel small.

Like a child.

Like a fragile being at the mercy of dark spirits—
Of shadows circling around me,
Trying to take something from me.

There's someone watching me from outside my room.

They don't look like a doctor—
But they stare.

Unwavering.

Unrelenting.

I'm terrified.

Sometimes, they're there.
Sometimes, they disappear.

But the feeling remains—

The feeling of being watched.

Of being followed.

Of never being alone—
No matter what.

Even when my mother, my sister, or the nurses aren't in the room—
I know I am not alone.

Someone watches me.
Constantly.
From the hallway.

I'm terrified.

But now, they're not looking.
Now, I am alone.

So, I move.

I sit up slowly—
I know if I rush, I might faint,
And if I faint, my plan will fall apart.

Once I'm steady, I rip out the IVs,
Feeling a jolt of pain with each one.

I wait.

I listen.

I expect alarms to sound,
For the machines to detect my missing vitals,
To signal my absence.

Nothing.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed,
Lowering them carefully,
Letting them dangle for a moment—
Before finally slipping down.

I land on the cold hospital floor,
Bare feet touching the linoleum.

Too high.

Much higher than I expected—
But I hold on.

Gripping the mattress for balance,
I give myself a moment.

Then,
One step at a time,
I move toward the door.

It takes me minutes
Just to reach the threshold.

From here, I see the hallway stretching out ahead—
Long, distant, endless.

This will be slow.
Painful.
Exhausting.

I wait again.

First, to see if I can stay standing.
Then, to watch the nurses.

They pass back and forth,
Focused on their own tasks.

A large clock hangs on the wall,
Its round face reflecting the fluorescent light.

Three a.m.

A good time to move.

My limbs are numb—
Not just my legs,
But my entire body feels asleep.

Like I'm moving through static,
Through some unseen resistance.

I take a breath.

Then,
I open the door.

Slowly.

Quietly.

I slip through, pressing the door shut behind me.

With my shoulder against the wall,
I inch my way forward—
Step by step,
Dragging my feet,
Barely breathing.

Every movement is agony.

But I keep going.

At the end of the hall,
I see it—

Room 480.

My destination.

Two doctors are talking nearby—
I don't have much time.

I push the door open—
And step inside.

The moment I enter,
A stench slams into me.

Thick.

Strange.

Wrong.

A wave of exhaustion crushes me—
And I collapse,
Falling to my knees,
Hands hitting the cold floor.

From my new perspective, the room stretches out before me—long, dark, filled with shifting shadows and the soft blinking lights of medical monitors. I decide to stay close to the floor, crawling forward. Somehow, my sluggish body moves more easily this way, though I still stumble, my hands slipping against the cold tile.

This room is different from mine. Beds line both walls, each accompanied by a chair. All are empty—except for the one at the far end, beside a large window. My mother sits there.

And next to her, Daniela's bed.

I push forward on all fours, my breathing shallow, my limbs weak. I trip a few times, landing hard on my hands and knees, but I keep going, dragging myself toward them.

Somehow, against all odds, I reach the foot of the bed. I pull myself up, gripping the metal railing with trembling fingers. The rhythmic beeping of the machines pounds in my ears.

But I can't see her.

The height of the bed seems impossible, towering over me. I shift to the side, trying to get a better angle, to see Daniela's face.

My heart pounds.

I brace myself for the worst—her skin burned, scarred beyond recognition. The thought alone makes my chest tighten.

Clinging to the railing, I inch my way to the side of the bed. The blanket covers most of her, but I can make out a sliver of her face. It's too dark to see her features clearly.

I reach out, hesitating, wanting to touch her, to reassure myself she's still here. But my fingers don't quite reach.

Why is the bed so high?

I stretch further, pushing my body to its limit, my fingertips grazing the edge of the blanket. Almost. Just a little more—

A scream.

A sharp, piercing cry shatters the silence.

I freeze.

My mother is on her feet, her face twisted in shock, mouth open in a silent wail before the scream escapes again.

Then, chaos.

The overhead lights flick on, too bright, too sudden.

I spin toward the door just as two doctors rush in, their expressions frozen in confusion.

"Daniela woke up!" my mother cries, frantic, pointing at the bed.

A jolt of terror shoots through me.

I turn back to look at her.

But nothing has changed.

The figure beneath the blanket remains motionless.

Then my sister bursts into the room, shoving past the doctors, nearly knocking them over. My mother rushes to my side, and I—without thinking—rip the blanket away.

The breath leaves my lungs.

The body in the bed is mine.

My own face stares back at me, wrapped in bandages, half-hidden behind tubes and wires.

The monitors beep steadily, indifferent to the horror unfolding around them.

I stagger back. My mind refuses to understand.

My sister drops to her knees in front of me, gripping my shoulders.

Her face is pale, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Daniela," she whispers. "Are you okay?"