Free The Stuff of Nightmares by Malorie Blackman

Holmes. She jumped back and stared at me. She’d obviously thought I was fast asleep. She was ancient – forty-something at least – with brown hair highlighted with streaks of brassy blonde and swept back into such a severe ponytail that it pulled her eyelids out towards her ears.
    ‘I just came in to make sure you were all right.’ Nurse Holmes’s voice was steady but her lips were a thin slash across her face. ‘Can I get you anything?’
    I shook my head. She left the room without a backward glance. I closed my eyes wearily and was instantly asleep again. My nightmare washed me away like a tidal wave.
    A brilliant flash of metal glinted in the torchlight. The glare of a knife blade … And as the blade flashed downwards, it seemed in the dim light to be winking. Winking. Winking … Arms came up to ward off the flashes of light, but it did no good. The flashes just grew harder and faster. HARDER AND FASTER … HARDER AND FASTER …
    When I woke up this morning, my left arm had been taken. I knew it was no longer there because it hurt so much. My left shoulder roared with pain. I’d only experienced pain like it once before – when they took my right arm. That was just under (just over?) a day ago. (A week ago?) In this place I’ve lost all track of time. But this place is all I have.
    Because I can’t remember …
    What’s wrong with me? Why did they take both my arms? I don’t know. My mind’s an empty box. I want to remember. I really do. I get the feeling the doctors don’t believe me when I say that, but it’s the truth. It’s just that, every time I try to force myself to remember what happened, what brought me here, the memory dances away from me like a shadow in a darkened room. Every morning I wake up and the memories are
almost
there. But when I reach out for them, they slip away, elusive, like water running through the cracks in my mind.
    My name is Jonathan, Jon for short, and I’m sixteen, almost seventeen. Just remembering that much leaves me exhausted. I turn my head from left to right, looking around. I’m in hospital. I’ve been in hospital for a long time – only I can’t remember why. I can’t remember seeing this room before either. Have I been moved? If so, from where?
    It’s a small room, with light-coloured walls and a door to my left, but apart from the bed I lie on (I assume it’s a bed), there is nothing else in it. The only light comes in through the small, frosted pane in the door.
    Remember, Jon. Remember
.
    The door to my room slid open. I waited a few moments before turning my head. In spite of the pain, I had to be careful. I couldn’t show anyone just how terrified I was. And how lonely. I looked at the nurse who stood by the door. His eyes were chips of blue ice. He didn’t like me, that was obvious. But why?
    ‘I’m Nurse Jennings,’ the man said, looking away.
    I wanted to ask about my arms, but my voice refused to work. And the nurse still refused to look at me.
    ‘I’ve come to give you your medication,’ he continued. ‘I’m going to roll you over onto your side so that I can give you an injection in your thigh. Doctor Jacobs will be coming to see you soon. She’s a psychiatrist. Just a moment.’
    Nurse Jennings went out of the room, only to return moments later with the elderly nurse who’d checked on me during the night. Her expression was hostile, which she was trying and failing to hide behind a mask of professional detachment.
    ‘Joseph Forman, number J42935,’ the elderly nurse said.
    ‘Joseph Forman, J42935,’ Nurse Jennings repeated.
    I shook my head. That wasn’t right. My name was Jonathan, not Joseph. They’d got the wrong name.
    The elderly nurse scooted out of the room without another word. Nurse Jennings rolled me over and jabbed me in the thigh. It should’ve hurt, but it didn’t. I couldn’t feel a thing. Nurse Jennings turned me onto my back. I smiled at him. I wanted so much for him and all the other nurses to like me.