His head thumped with the familiar rhythm of a hangover, but it wasn't as bad as it should be. He could smell antiseptic, and his skin prickled with goosebumps from cool air conditioning. Blake opened his eyes. The light was dim but he was clearly in some kind of hospital room. A curtain surrounded his bed, patterned with swirls that made his stomach heave to look at. He closed his eyes again, concentrating on breathing evenly as his body calmed. His ribs ached and his torso was bruised. He remembered the car park, the beating, the two men. He lifted his hand to feel where the pain centered, but it was brought up short by a rattle on the metal bars at the side of the bed. He looked down and could just make out the padded handcuffs that shackled him. There was a drip attached to a cannula in the back of his right hand. His gloves were gone, leaving his scarred hands vulnerable to the air and, in the dim light, the ivory ropes of damaged skin seemed to glow. His fingertips felt every puff of air in the room, and it seemed that the hangover was making him excruciatingly sensitive.
What do You think about Delirium (London Psychic)?
