Free Struggle (The Hibernia Strain) by Albert Peterson

1
    Light manages to burrow its way through my eyelash es and burns into my retinas. Grimacing I squeeze both eyelids tightly shut again. Trying a second time, I squint my right eye only. It takes a few seconds to become accustomed to the brightness of the sterile white environment.
    Its daylight and I ’m in a room, that despite never been in before is instantly recognisable as a hospital bedroom. They always look the same. A shitty bed, a shitty little TV in the corner and a shitty little sink by the door.
    My body aches all over. It hurts to even move my neck to look around. I’m just lying here staring up at the ceiling.
    I rememb er been in an accident but don’t know what happened after I was taken from my car, who took me from it or how I got here? Where exactly is here anyhow? It’s a hospital for certain but which one?
    I have so many questions but there’s nobody around to provide any answers.
    I attempt to sit up. S cowling with the pain I manage to park myself in something of an upright position. My body is bruised and battered with several lacerations, all of which have been treated and bandaged.
    The bed keeps squeaking as I move about. It must be noisier than I realised because after a few moments the door opens and in walks a rather striking looking young man, garbed in a soldier’s uniform and carrying an assault rifle.
    He ’s roughly six-foot tall, sporting a tight crew cut and has several gashes on his face. He’s pretty strong looking, and in my weakened state I’m hoping he’s an ally.
    I say nothing and wait for him to make the first move. A greeting of a quick upward nod of the he ad and a, “Finally awake I see,” is enough to reassure me that I’m in friendly company.
    “Ya I guess I am,” I reply, “h ow long exactly was I out?”
    “Let ’s see we crashed on Sunday night and it’s now ten o’clock Wednesday morning,” he responds.
    I ’m pretty shocked by this. I was knocked out for two and a half days!
    “Sorry about that by the way,” he continues.
    “For what?” I question.
    “For slamming into the side of your car.”
    I raise my hand with a gesture to tell him to forget about it and this sends a ripple of pain darting through my side. I groan and cough which only adds to the hurt.
    “Pretty sore huh?”
    More like a pretty stupid question. I decide to hold off on showing my displeasure and instead nod to signify that yes it is sore, very motherfucking sore.
    He roots around in one of the pockets of his combat trousers, and pulling out a packet of tablets offers me one with a glass of water from the sink.
    I look at it with a degree of uncertainty.
    “Morphine,” he clarifies.
    I willingly take it from him and down it , before lying back in the bed to wait for the effects to dull my pain.
    “You should eat something to help build up your strength and then rest up. You ’re not ready to move about just yet.”
    He gestures to a plate of food beside my bed. I ’m hungry but don’t have any desire to eat right now. I close my eyes and sigh out loud in agreement.
    “I ’ll be just outside in the hall if you need me,” he says leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
    Between the pain and the drugs I ’m not up for much thinking about anything, so I keep my eyes shut and make an effort to sleep.
    Over the next few of hours I find myself drifting in and out of a nightmarish slumber. Amongst the nightmares of demons chasing me and killing those around me, I have one that strikes a chord with reality from when I was six.
    That horrible time when I was only a mere child and the life changing events that befell me. It ’s not my first time to have chilling dreams surrounding that time but now they seem more vivid and potent. Playing like a movie of my own personal tragic story over and over again.
     
    ---It’s the middle of a cold November night when I stir from my sleep. I can see my misty breath momentarily before it dissipates into the shadows. The