More Than Imagined

Chapter 5

The mechanical beep stirred Rhoawyn. Her heavy eyes opened to an assault of sterilized light. Sluggish arms splayed across a leather cushion, her stiff limbs loosening like wrinkles beneath wet steam.

She was awake. Alive. But something in the back of her mind was telling her she shouldn't be. She turned to find her arm linked by a needle to a strange machine. It dripped a foreign blue solution into her veins. Constant. Rhythmic.

Images pulsed through her mind. Searing pain. Suffocating smoke. Departure. One that clearly didn't work. But they always worked.

The room was sparse—aside from the machine, a couch to her front, a chair, a mirror, and a thickly woven curtain drawn back into the corner. It was a hospital room; she was sure, though never having been in one. She had seen them tucked between gyms and clothing stores a few times while visiting other higher number's Sites.

Once, when she was about eleven, she broke her finger during a wayward somersault. Rhoawyn hadn't expected the pain to shoot up her arm. Hadn't expected the agony of an appendage as small as a finger could cause, but it kick-started her resourcefulness.

Trying to ignore the throbbing pain, she pulled up a few weeds from the field and wrapped them around a piece of dangling fabric from her shirt, holding up the underside of the injury.

When she returned home and showed her father, he had been so proud of her quick thinking. She wore that makeshift splint for two weeks because the fabric wouldn't stay in one piece any longer. She'd never be able to make a proper peace sign with that hand again, but she saved herself from having only four functioning fingers. It would have been good as new if she had access to a place like this.

The easy slide of the door startled her, making way for a man. He strode in, trench coat on his shoulders, hands in his pocket, hair pulled back in a smooth bun.

"This the right room?" His voice warmed over her like a rush of adrenaline as he sat on the opposite couch. The probing look he gave her made the cool air rolling across the bare skin of her legs more noticeable, and she curled her knees into her chest—suddenly feeling exposed.

"I don't know what you mean," Rhoawyn croaked, vocal cords raw.

"I'm supposed to be giving a warm welcome to a new initiate. Just can't quite remember her name. Rita maybe? River? Rose..." he trailed off, pointer finger catching on the pouty curve of his bottom lip as he tried to remember. The action caused the sleeve of his coat to roll down his arm, revealing a four-sided stretch of black with a question mark in the middle etched into the skin of his forearm.

"Maybe it's Rhoawyn?" she asked, eyes not straying from his arm. It was not quite like a tattoo. She had seen plenty of those in her Mom's shed—images jabbed into the skin with a wooden point to create the illusion of something natural. This looked more like something that had sprouted from beneath the surface and found it belonged there.

He snapped a finger, "That's it. Must be in the right place."

"Must be," Rhoawyn said, barely paying attention. He caught sight of her watching the design and tilted his wrist. Her eyes shot back to his face, wide with embarrassment. He walked to occupy the space beside Rhoawyn. She crowded further into herself, but her curiosity remained.

"A fan of cards?" He asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Not really, I've only ever seen a deck of cards a handful of times in advertisements. In Site 3, rations are meant for necessities, not niceties." She glanced back down at the peculiar card on his wrist. "Besides, that doesn't look like it belongs to any card game I've ever heard of."