Sandra's POV
I woke with a jolt, my eyes snapping open as if I had been pulled from the depths of a nightmare.
Blinding white lights burned overhead, their sterile glow drilling into my skull. I squinted, struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar ceiling tiles. My heart thudded irregularly, a lumbering weight in my chest, each beat too loud, too wrong.
Something was wrong.
The smell hit me next. Antiseptic. Metallic. Cold. A hospital.
Panic crawled up my spine.
I tried to sit up, but pain lanced through my chest and shoulder. My fingers clutched at the rough sheets, my hands trembling as if they'd been frozen and forgotten. I turned my head—slowly, painfully—and then I saw it.
A bag of blood, deep red and heavy, swaying slightly on a thin metal rod. A tube led from it—directly into the vein in my arm.
My stomach turned. My breath caught in my throat.
What the hell happened to me?
Beside the bed, chaos: syringes discarded in haste, blood-spotted cotton wool, a nearly empty IV bag dripping its last. It looked like a battlefield. My battlefield.
I blinked hard, trying to steady the room that seemed to tilt beneath me.
The last thing I remembered—faint and distant—was night. Evening, maybe. I had finished everything I wanted to do. Though I was tired, I still had some energy left in me.
Now, through a narrow window, I could see the early blush of morning stretching across the sky.
How? I'd lost time. Days maybe. It felt like someone had ripped chapters out of my life.
Then the flashes came.
Smoke.
Screams.
Heat.
Flames.
I flinched, gasping for air.
What happened during the fire?
Was it a dream? Nightmare?
The more I tried to remember the more my head hurt.
It had to be a dream. I couldn't really remember.
I turned again, desperate for answers—and that's when I saw her.
A woman in a white uniform sat near the heart monitor. Her face was weary, drawn. Her shoulders slumped like someone who hadn't slept in days. She hadn't noticed me yet.
I tried to speak. "H-Hello..."
It was barely a whisper. My throat burned.
She turned sharply. Her eyes widened.
"You're awake," she said, nearly dropping the chart in her hand.
She rushed over, checking the monitor, then my pulse. Her fingers were cold but careful.
"You've been unconscious for quite some time," she said softly. "Don't try to talk too much. I'll get you something warm—you haven't had real food in a week."
A week?
That word echoed through me like a thunderclap.
She disappeared out the door before I could ask any questions.
I was alone again—only the beeping of the monitor keeping me grounded.
A week? What the hell happened to me in a week?
My hands ached to move. I flexed my fingers. Still working. I tried lifting my arm—it felt like it was made of concrete. My body had forgotten me.
The nurse returned minutes later, steam rising from a ceramic cup in her hand.
"Careful now. Just sip." She gently slid a pillow behind my neck to prop me up and brought the cup to my lips.
The scent was earthy, unfamiliar. Not quite tea. Something thicker. Medicinal. Whatever it was, I didn't care. My throat was dry and desperate.
I drank..
The warmth spread through my chest like fire melting ice. A strange clarity followed. My fingers twitched. I could move. Slightly.
"What... happened?" I managed.
She hesitated, glancing at the monitor before answering.
"You had a cardiac arrest," she said. "Severe smoke inhalation. Your heart stopped. We revived you on the way here."
My breath hitched. "I... died?"
"Technically, yes. But we brought you back. You were in a coma for seven days."
My heart sank. My fingers dug into the sheets. Seven days?
Before I could ask more, a knock thundered on the door—loud, desperate.
The nurse turned. "That must be her. One moment."
She slipped outside.
I heard murmured voices. Then she called back, "Your friend Maria has been waiting all week. She never left."
Maria.
Before I could process it, the door burst open.
And there she was—Maria—her face streaked with tears, her coat wrinkled, eyes swollen from nights of grief. She rushed to my side and collapsed into the chair next to me.
"Oh my God," she sobbed. "You're here. You're awake."
Her hands grabbed mine, squeezing so tight it almost hurt.
"You scared me to death," she said. "You don't understand. I thought I lost you."
I stared at her, my throat aching. "What happened, Maria? Please… I need to know."
She looked at me, as if unsure how to say it. Her lip trembled.
"You don't remember anything?"
"Just smoke and fire. I can't remember what happened. What happened during the fire?"
Maria inhaled shakily. "The bakery caught fire last week. There was a gas leak. It exploded. I…I was walking down the street when I saw the flames. I ran. I screamed for you. People were throwing water. You were already on the ground. Unconscious."
Her voice cracked. "I thought I was too late."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
The bakery…
Tears filled my eyes. My life. My dreams. All of it, gone in a blaze.
"I remember now," I whispered.
Flames. Screaming. Me, running back toward it. Toward the fire. The sound of wood cracking, bricks falling. And the silence—just before everything went dark.
"I've lost everything." I cried loudly.
"Maria, tell me this is a dream. No….it can't be real."
Maria sobbed quietly.
"You didn't lose everything," she said firmly, gripping my hand. "You're still here. You survived."
But her words couldn't touch the emptiness building in my chest.
I looked away. The memories were clear now—too clear.
Suddenly, my chest seized.
A sharp, stabbing pain raced down my arm. My breath caught.
"Maria…" I gasped. "Something's wrong…."
The monitor beside me began beeping wildly. The rhythm turned chaotic.
Maria shot up, terror in her eyes. "No, no, no….please, not again!"
"NURSE!" she screamed, her voice splitting the air. "NURSE, HELP!"