CHAPTER ONE:
❝ hospital blues ❞

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

June 2009.

It was growing close to evening and Gloria Roan Memorial Hospital was bustling. It wasn't necessarily a large hospital, but it was also the only one within a 10 mile radius of most of the surrounding backwater towns. Nurses and doctors hurried up and down the long hallways like cars on a busy highway, while the ceaseless hum of medical equipment provided a steady rhythm to the chaotic symphony of life-saving efforts. Patients, some in wheelchairs, others in lumpy hospital beds, filled the corridor of rooms, where they sat, waiting, for something: a diagnosis, test results, discharge papers, good news, bad news. For some, their emotions were written plainly on their faces. Fear. Despair. Hope. The tension buzzed in the air like a thousand bees. The waiting area wasn't any different either. It resembled a bustling marketplace, with families huddled together, exchanging whispered conversations and nervous glances. In other parts, visitors, clutching bouquets of flowers and balloons, navigated through the maze of hallways, their footsteps echoing against the sterile tile floors.
Phones rang occasionally at the nurses' station, while the scent of antiseptic mingled with the occasional waft of cafeteria food. A step inside was the hospital quite nearly an attack on the senses.

However, all was quiet in Room 111.

The door was cracked just a smidge, letting in the cacophony from outside, though the noises seemed to die once they reached the threshold. It was so quiet that someone might have dismissed the room as being empty. Yet, on the far side of the room, in a bed pushed up against the wall, sat a pitiful looking young woman. She was twenty-something with blonde hair, sharp features, and stormy blue eyes that stared absently out the window, but compared to the hundreds of other places in the hospital, she appeared like any other patient. If anything, she seemed to fade way into the background.

In the case of twenty-seven year old Sara-Jane Elizabeth Hatchett, as described by the chart at the end of the cot, it was difficult to decipher where the bed ended and where she began. Pale, skinny, and dressed in thin, cotton hospital gown, she nearly melded in with the bed sheets and white walls behind her. Sara-Jane neglected to move, as still as a ghostly portrait. There was a stillness in the room too, broken only by the ancient AC unit sputtering to life in the window and the slow ticking of a clock on the wall. Someone walking by might have missed her at first glance.
Sara-Jane was agitated. Her fingers twitched against her arm, fingernails scraping skin as she dragged them in circular motions around a fresh bandage. The area was raw and prickled uncomfortably; the feeling danced across her body and dug into her bones as if there were bugs crawling under the surface. She stared at a fixed point beyond the window and took long, slow breaths to combat the feeling in her chest; the tight, sharp pain of anxiety that bloomed in her rib cage like a rose. Thorns and all. It made her want to dig her fingers between her ribs and claw out her lungs, as if that might make the problem better. Her nails, covered in chipped blue polish that she didn't remember putting on, instead clawed her arm to shreds, to the near point where blood began to well up beneath the skin, ready to burst forth. That perhaps was a great deal better than the insatiable itch she was trying to scratch. She was considering biting through the bandage when the door to her hospital room.

"Ms. Hatchett, how are we doing this evening?"

The nurse, Mrs. Deborah Franklin, was a large, plump woman with an even larger personality. Everything about her was larger than life. Her attitude, her hair, her smile—it was all big. Sara-Jane imagined she was the kind of person that commanded the attention of a room with just a look or a well-placed comment. She had seen her prowling the hallways the night before, like a shark in blood-permeated water, no doubt looking for someone to set straight. In the few days Sara-Jane had come to know her, Deborah Franklin always showed up wearing blue scrubs and a matching wrap that held up a puff of dark coiled hair. She had a round face, big, discerning eyes, and a disapproving scowl reserved only for those she didn't like or didn't believe. Sara-Jane was often met with one of the latter. Though, that wasn't to say that it wasn't deserved. It was hard to believe a girl who lied about everything.

About three days prior, Sara-Jane had been brought in by a concerned civilian, after playing a game of chicken the highway with his pickup. She was disoriented, scraped up, and wobbling like a drunk on the day before Thanksgiving. Worst of all, she had no recollection of where she was, what she was doing there, and how the hell she had ended up in southern Missouri. More specifically, how she had traveled nearly 300 miles from her hometown on the opposite side of the state and couldn't remember one moment of it. In fact, the entire past year was missing from her memory. Gone. Like it had never happened. She had woken up thinking it was 2008, but she was quick to discover that was, in fact, wrong. An entire year had passed and it was almost as if she hadn't been there for any of it. Static filled the gap, fuzzy around the edges and lacking any real distinction, like she had been asleep for the last 365 days.
Sara-Jane's instinct was to panic, but that was more than she let on. She had spied the date on a newspaper sticking out of a doctor's coat and when asked, she lied. From an outward perspective, she was only missing a few days, not an entire year. She couldn't explain, even to herself, why she couldn't be honest, other than something deep down knew she'd be labeled as crazy if she told the truth. Every bone in her body was telling her to escape and lying was the quickest way out. Unfortunately for Sara-Jane Hatchett, Deborah Franklin appeared to see right through that bullshit.

"It's Jane. And I'm fine, thank you," she said, pulling the blanket over her mutilated arm. "Just ready to get out of here."

"Mmhmm," Deborah replied, fixing Jane with a skeptical look. She pulled a pen out of her scrub pocket and used it to scribble something on a notepad. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain today?"

"Zero. When can I get discharged?"

"When I say you can." The woman put her notepad down long enough to fold her arms over her chest. She tapped a foot, slowly, almost impatiently. "Now, be honest."

"Fine. Maybe a three," Jane conceded, exhaling a frustrated sigh. She touched a bandage on her forehead gingerly with her fingertips. "My head is still really killing me. The pain meds wore off about an hour ago."

The nurse nodded and wrote something else down. "I'll have Dr. Daniel write you a prescription for something...What about your arm?"

"What about my arm?"

Deborah rolled her eyes and pointed to Jane's bandaged arm with the tip of her pen. "Hon, don't play games with me. You're not gonna like the results. That arm. What's up with it?"

Reluctantly, Jane took her arm out from under the blanket and showed it to the nurse. It looked as if an animal had gotten a hold of it, red claw-like marks etched into the paleness of her skin and blood welling beneath the surface. She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. "It's just a little itchy. But it's fine, really."

"Mmhmm." Deborah raised a brow, suspiciously. "It's probably the bandage. I'll redress it."

Jane nodded and stowed her arm away awkwardly. A beat passed and neither of them said anything, though she could clearly see the look in the nurse's eyes. A question, or quite possibly a few, hung in the air between them as if suspended on an invisible line. If Jane knew anything about Deborah, it was that she wasn't shy about anything, much less getting to the bottom of things. Jane's skin prickled, uncomfortable under the older woman's gaze.

"How's your memory? Anything coming back yet?"

Fuck. "Well, y'know, bits and pieces," Jane answered casually, despite lying through her teeth. "That's what I get for drinking, I guess."

"Well, that's strange—there was no indication of alcohol in your system."

If she wasn't already, Jane began to perspire under her cotton gown. She picked at a loose threat on the hospital blanket and shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe I was drugged then. There's all sorts of things nowadays that don't show up on tox screens. And like I said: bits and pieces."

Another beat of silence. She hesitated a moment more before opening her mouth again. "So...?"

Deborah gave her a long, unconvinced look, before sighing heavily, and tucking away her notepad and pen. "Fine. I will start your discharge paperwork. Do you hear that? Start. Not finish, start. You still need some time to rest."

"But?"

"Girl, you are a pain in my behind. But...you should be out of here by tonight."

"Thank you," Jane said, trying to hide her relieved smile.

"Mmhmm."

Deborah shook her head again as she turned away from the bed and walked towards the door. Satisfied, Jane relaxed back into her pillows. Even though there was a much larger problem at hand, the tight feeling in her chest loosened by a smidge. Things would look much clearer once she had something other to stare at than plain white walls. However, before she could get too comfy, a voice echoed through the small room.

Dear God, please let me keep this job.

Jane jumped, startled and partially scared, and slapped a hand over her ear, which was ringing with the intensity of someone shouting directly into it. She was surprised her eardrum wasn't busted or bleeding and she definitely wasn't impressed with Deborah's bedside manner. Jane looked up, ready to give the nurse a piece of her mind, but found she was still by the door, on the opposite side of the room.

"What the fuck? Why did you do that?"

Deborah turned around, brows furrowed. "What? I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did. I heard you just now. You shouted at me. Something about wanting to keep your job," Jane said, incredulously, as she rubbed her ear. As soon as the words had slipped off her tongue, she wondered if she'd made a mistake. Deborah wore an expression of confusion and if Jane looked close enough, she could have sworn she saw a flicker of disbelief or even fear pass through her eyes. That look alone was enough to convince her that she should have kept those comments to herself. Normal people don't talk about the voices in their heads.

"Sorry, I'm probably just hearing things," Jane fumbled, attempting to quickly change the subject. "Head injury and all."

Deborah nodded slowly, but Jane got the sense that she wasn't really listening. She had a far away look on her face, as if her mind were someplace else instead of the hospital. Shame rippled through the young woman's body.

Finally, Deborah spoke. "You're an odd case, Ms. Sara-Jane Hatchet." Her tone was chilly. A involuntary shiver ran down Jane's spine as if a piece of ice had been dropped down her shirt. She swore the room dropped a few degrees, too. "Do you know that?"

You have no idea, she thought, but wasn't brave enough to let those words slip from her mouth.

Deborah left in silence. She carried that distant expression with her all the way down the hall until Jane could do longer see her. Only then did she let out a sigh of relief. The blonde ran her good hand over her face and through her hair while she stared up at the tiled ceiling. The entire conversation left her with a pit in her stomach. Deborah's plea rang in her ears, over and over like an echo in a canyon, only it didn't fade out. Her voice continued as she were only standing inches from Jane's head.

That's it.

Gritting her teeth, Jane ripped her IV line out and quickly clamped a hand over the blood that leaked from the wound. She then swung her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled over to a chair in the corner that held a plastic bag full of clothes. They were the same ones that she had been wearing three days ago when she had been brought to the hospital, now returned by the police after she decided she didn't want to pursue her case with an investigation. Involving them would have made things messier; Jane had a bad feeling they would go sticking their noses into things she didn't want to know about. A lot could have happened in a year.
Jane opened the bag and pulled out a few articles of clothing, none of which she recognized as her own. A long blue coat, a white button down, black slacks, and a antique-ish looking hat that she guess was from the 1920s. God, did she miss her sweatshirts from home. All of the items were either dirty or torn up from her trip in the woods, a few of which, such as the shirt, still had spots of blood on them. Regardless, Jane began to put them all on, with the exception of the hat, which she stowed into a coat pocket. Once she was dressed, she crept to the door and peered out into the hall. Empty. No Nurse Franklin, or any medical professional for that matter. Jane took this as an opportunity to escape. Head down, she turned left out of Room 111 and followed the signs through the maze of corridors, to the elevators that would take her downstairs to the lobby. A pair of doctors waited in front of the doors and she had no choice but to avoid them, opting to take the stairs down instead. Floor 3, down a flight of stairs, pause to check the sign, then down two more flights of stairs until the map showed the main entrance. When Jane opened the door to the ground level, she was met with a torrent of sound. Voices, pleading.

God, please help my mother get better.

Don't let my husband die, he's too young.

Why did you have to take her?

It was as if people were whispering right over her shoulder, but there was never anyone close to her when she turned her head. The voices only got louder as she continued down the hall towards the waiting room, similar to a crowd in a sports stadium. Deafening. Catastrophic. The pain in their voices was devastating enough; Jane wanted to slap her hands over her ears and run, but her arms stayed glued to her side and her legs refused to move any faster. It was a miracle that she remained upright.

Our Father, who art in heaven...
deliver us from evil...
protect my daughter in her time of need.

Please forgive me, Lord.
Please help me. Save me.

Do something, please.
Why won't you help us?
Aren't you there?

Please, God.
Answer me.

Was this karma? Or better yet, was it all in her head? Perhaps she was still lying out on that empty highway, bleeding out internally or something equally as fucked. And this, this was all just a figment of her imagination; she was dying and those exit doors outside were the light at the end of this god forsaken tunnel. How poetic. She had always expected her passing to be sudden or peaceful, but this was anything but. The voices were cacophonous now, each word driving into her head like a nail in her coffin. The corners of Jane's vision darkened and she surely thought she might collapse. Then, someone reached out, grasped her firmly by the arms, and held her upright. The moment their hands touched her skin, the prayers stopped. A voice spoke, but the sound came muddled, as if she were coming up through water. It was deep, the type that sent a vibration through one's chest, and by virtue of, a vague assumption popped into her head.

God?

"Woah there. Are you okay?"

Perhaps not.

Jane looked up. In the hazy light filtering in through the outside doors, she saw an angel. He was beautiful. Green eyes, short cropped hair, chiseled features—very modelesque. He had no wings and wore a suit and tie, which Jane thought to be weird considering she thought angels dressed in white robes and halos, not J.Crew's finest. He looked more like a James Bond agent than anything else. Regardless, he was a sight. Maybe dying wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Dean?" Another voice. "Everything alright?"

A second man, also strangely handsome, but twice as tall, peered over the first's shoulder. He was also dressed in a suit and had dark hair that fell close to his shoulders, but again, no wings, no halo, just normal attire. They were both just normal people. Jane came to her senses slower than she wanted to.

"What? Oh my God. Yeah, no, I'm fine. Low blood sugar, I think. Just need to get some juice," she said, shaking off her disorientation. She looked up at the first man, 'Dean', and frowned. "Looks like you could use some, too."

Dean didn't react to her joke. She must have really looked like hell, because his expression morphed into one of bewilderment. A mix between horror and disbelief. Jane was almost offended; sure, she was sporting a healing black eye and a busted lip among other things, but did he really have to bruise her ego that way? Wait. No; that wasn't concern. It was recognition. The embodiment of "what the fuck" was plastered on his face, almost as if he had seen a ghost. All of the color had drained from him and he stood there looking just as pale as she was, though several feet taller and without the nervous twitch. Jane hoped he wouldn't faint; she certainly didn't have the means to keep him upright like he had done for her. When she exchanged a glance with the taller man, Jane found that he shared the same stare. A bad feeling settled in the bottom of her stomach.

"I'm just gonna..." She managed to disentangle herself from Dean's hold and step back, holding her arms to herself awkwardly. "Thanks for the, uh, help, I guess. But..."

Jane looked over her shoulder just in time to see Deborah Franklin walk briskly into the waiting room and approach the receptionist, whom she shared a few words with. The woman at the desk, in turn, searched the room and then pointed in Jane's direction. What a narc. Jane locked eyes with the nurse and had barely a split second to react before Deborah was shouting across the room.

"Ms. Hatchett!"

"That, would be my cue. Afternoon gentlemen," Jane gave the pair a forced smile, before squeezing past them to get out the door.

The sunlight was bright and warm on her face as she hurried across the parking lot to the road on the other side. She wasn't sure where she was running to, just as long as it was far away from the hospital and everyone inside. Blood pounded loud enough in her ears that she thought someone, perhaps security, was chasing her, but once she was a safe distance away, she was thankful to find that no one was following. She halted long enough to catch her breath, wheezing, and threw a look behind her at the hospital. Deborah hadn't pursued, but a figure was standing in the doorway, staring after her. The shorter of the two men, the male model-looking one, lingered under the breezeway watched her with discerning eyes, and Jane couldn't help but stare back, stuck beneath the intensity of his gaze. The brakes of a car squealed in the road behind her and broke Jane from whatever reverie she was in. She forced herself to break eye contact and as she walked away, she was laden with this haunting feeling, a sense of deja vu, that she had seen him before, and even worse, it wouldn't be the last time she would see him either.

Especially since she had stolen his wallet.