I woke up to the stale smell of disinfectant and the sharp glare from the harsh fluorescent lights hanging above my head. The tangle of wires, bags, and beeping machines were attached to every particle of my exposed flesh, surrounding me like overzealous aunts during a family reunion. There was a strange silence to the hospital other than the beeping of the machines. I lay on the scratchy mattress, inhaling the acrid scent of vomit and bleach. My thoughts were sluggish, my body refusing to cooperate with my brain. I lay on my bed, alone except for the rhythmic beeps the machines emitted. A soft, sweet melody started to play, I lay awake listening to the melodious harp playing when a low, dissonant sound was struck.

The air suddenly seemed to have disappeared from my throat as the heart monitor jumped off the charts. I was flying through the air, hovering in front of a dark room, in front of a woman with midnight black hair playing the harp. Her fingers paused, and she turned her head, her eyes somehow transparent, but before I could make sense of her features I was hurtling through the air again. I woke up in the hospital bed again, blinking and gasping for air. I heard the soft thud of footsteps, the door opened as someone in scrubs walked inside, carrying a cart filled with medical equipment. “How are you doing?” the woman asked. Not waiting for an answer, she removed a large, sharp scalpel, turning her head. The glassy transparent eyes of the harpist stared at me. I was flying again, thrown through the air, my shoulders becoming knees, head becoming feet, until I was gone.