Scalpel, Stat

The siren rises and falls, at exactly the right pitch to set my hairs on end, and pit my teeth against each other. It feels claustrophobic back here, as if the walls of the ambulance are closing in on me. Beads of sweat break out on my face, and I can feel my breath coming quick and ragged.

I've got to get out of here.

"Try to lie still," one of them says. I flinched away from her touch, and avert my eyes from her ghastly non-face. I'm not sure which unnerves me more, the feel of her looking right at me despite not having any eyes, or the speaking to me without a mouth.

"You can let me out here," I say, "Anywhere here is fine. Really."

"Sir, you have a hole in your torso. You need stitches at least, and you need properly evaluating for internal inj-"

I wriggle away again, but you can't get away in places like this. It's not exactly what you'd call roomy.

"Will yo- please!- Sir!- Stop- you're bleeding is getting w- You really have to calm d-"

"He's getting agitated. We'd be justified in administering a sedative."

This is where I redouble my efforts to avoid whatever sharp things they are coming at me with. It would be almost comical if I wasn't dripping blood everywhere.

"I don't consent to whatever you're trying to do," I'm gabbling like an idiot. "I'm immunocompromised, you know. You should be wearing a - hey! - a mask when you're-"

+

That's the last thing I remember in the ambulance. I think they managed to get some sedative into me and that was that.

Unfortunately my panic in the ambulance has resulted in some extra measures being taken. I've woken up to find myself restrained. I want to yell and scream to be let go, but I'm worried that it will only result in another shot of the stuff.

I fill the time looking around the room. It looks older and browner than I feel hospitals are supposed to look. I've been left in a side room, and I wasn't conscious when they wheeled me in here. This means I haven't seen the normal hustle and bustle of a hospital. I could almost believe this one was abandoned, not a real hospital at all. I hear the occasional beep or an eldritch shrieking pierce the walls. It doesn't help. Not one bit.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside has me tugging at the restraints, trying to move my arms. It's useless.

Does he know who I am? Will he help me? Or will I be his next victim?

The door opens and the doctor stalks into the room. I squeak.

This is another one that has a proper face, and he's using it to smile in an unsettling way. I can see the expression, because his mask is pulled down around his chin. If the manic grin is supposed to put me at my ease. If so, it's not working. He looks like he has scalpels stitched into that white coat, and maybe a head or two in his fridge back home.

It dawns on me that I am far better at writing nasty people than decent ones. Instead of being afraid of the faceless folk, I should be seeking them out, maybe asking them for their help. Most of them are harmless extras in the stories I've written. Not the one who knifed me less than an hour ago, of course, but most.

The ones with the clearly defined faces are far more likely to pose a threat.

The doctor is still prowling towards me with his teeth bared.