Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Du, Du hast, Du Hasst Mich ❯ Seven ( Chapter 7 )

Vincent's eye blinked open. He was still in the hospital. There were still needles and tubes in him. There were still bandages on him and machines hooked up to him. He couldn't feel his legs, save for the pain. The catheter was still there.

He closed his eye and managed to slowly move his right leg. It felt as heavy as concrete and the few times he felt the bed sheets, they stung like ice.

He met resistance and moved his foot up and down against it. It was slow and it took the rest of his body a long time to wake up. Finally, he discerned cold flesh, not cold metal, not cold sheets and nothing on them. His nerves in his left leg were waking up slightly as well, though the feeling was duller.

Vincent opened both eyes and sat up slightly.

There was no one here. No nurse. No doctor. No Cid. No Shera. No one.

Sitting up so fast, despite how little he had actually moved, made the blood rush to his head and he was nauseated. He could smell the vomit everywhere now. He had been asleep and cleaned up, but he could feel it sting his face. He could still taste it and feel how burned his throat was. The blanket had been changed at least once and the bed and pillow were stained. He could feel it on his teeth.

Trying to hold back his stomach spasms, he swatted the dirty pillow off the bed, feeling stupid as he noted Hojo had done a better job at cleaning someone up.

His stomach refused to be ignored and he vomited over the side of the bed and on to the floor. He wanted to wipe the filth away, but that would mean both his hand and face would be dirty. What else was there? The blanket? He was freezing cold as it was.

He whimpered, on the verge of tears.

There was another smell, and he didn't like this one either. Antiseptic had been used to clean the floor, ironically to cover up the smell of vomit only to have the reverse happen. Now that he could smell it, the powerful chemicals stinging his nose, he felt like throwing up again.

He hadn't even eaten anything.

He looked to his side. There were still the machines. It was bad enough that he wasn't wearing any real clothes, was covered with gauze and had tubes in him.

There were wires connected to sticky pads on his temples and on his chest. He knew they were monitoring his brain and heart, but why… what was wrong with him? What was wrong with his head? What was wrong with his heart?

This was Hojo's doing, wasn't it? He hadn't just been added to, had he? His arm wasn't the only thing making him less than whole, there was something deficient about him, wasn't there?

Were they even looking at the notes? Maybe the notes didn't help. Maybe they couldn't understand them either. Maybe they still didn't know what was wrong with him even with the notes. Maybe… maybe they wanted to try tests on him too.

He looked away and saw the IVs. There were so many. He knew the milky one had to be nutrients to keep him hydrated after surgery. There was a small one with blood in it. What were the others for? Why wasn't he ever told what was happening to him? Why did he have to wake up drugged and drooling and abandoned to wonder at wires and tubes and needles like some lab rat or rabid dog?

He cringed, cowering back onto the bed.

His hand curled around something soft and fuzzy. Looking down, he saw a small stuffed toy resembling a cave mog. There was a tiny card tied on it with ribbons.

He opened the card slowly, hating the fact that he was shaking and his vision was swirling slightly. He had to blink and concentrated to make out the words.

It was from Marlene, and Barret had signed it too.

He looked up, away from the machines and the IVs.

There was a table along the wall. He couldn't tell how far away it was because the whole room kept stretching back and forth in different directions. The table was covered mostly in postcards and folded cards from some shiny glittery store or another. There was a comic book, as well as a vase with a few yellow roses. He wished he could smell them.

Everything went black. He was wide awake and he knew he hadn't blinked. What the he-

The room was bac-

Blackness-

It didn't last-

Blackness again-

Everything flickered back and forth between vision and nothingness, like a television screen with a bad signal. On and off, on and off, on and off. Flicker. Flicker, flicker.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe when it happened, like living in a strobe light.

Flicker.

On.

Off.

Room.

Blackness.

Flicker.

The re was a pause long enough for him to take a breath.

It flickered again and left.

He was alone in the room long enough to blink.

Nurses ran into the room.

There was a hand on his forehead. There was a paper towel on his face, finally cleaning him up.

Someone was checking the EEG.

Someone was removing the small, now empty, blood transfusion. It wasn't replaced.

He managed to smile.

The nurses weren't the only ones relieved all he had suffered this time was a severe case of the hiccups, which he was hardly aware of.

Then things began to blur.

There were hands all over him. Hands, white sleeves, touching him, cleaning him.

He didn't want the hands near him.

He didn't want anyone touching him.

He wasn't going back.

Before he started screaming, he tasted blood. And fingers.