The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room stabbed at my eyes, a stark contrast to the blissful oblivion I'd just emerged from. My head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that resonated with the throbbing in my bruised knuckles. Bruised knuckles? I looked down at my hands, the skin around my joints a mottled purple and green.

The memory of how they'd gotten this way remained stubbornly elusive, a frustrating gap in my consciousness. A sterile white sheet covered me, its crispness a cruel mockery of the chaos I felt swirling inside. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else, something metallic and vaguely sickening that clung to the back of my throat.