By Connor Long-Johnson
I heard a woman and looked up, startled; she was running down the hallway screaming.
I woke up groaning, the sound echoing around the room. I surveyed my surroundings, walls of lime green, a white tiled floor and various sterile instruments on the table to my right.
I scratched at an itching feeling at the centre of my chest. I looked down, surprised to find that I was fingering a bloody hole that had begun to dry, with crust forming around the edges, like rubies.
There was the faintest sound of footsteps tapping on the hard floor in the distance.
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