The Silent Witness of Hospital No. 9.

My name is Victor. I repeat it as if it’s the one thing that proves I am still human—that I am still here.

Breath still moved through me. I could hear sounds, though they reached me in a water-muffled, distorted type of way. Slowly over an unknown stretch of time—minutes or hours, I could not tell—these senses began to swim back into focus.

My mind remained lucid, but my body no longer obeyed. I feel like a hollow ghost sealed inside a concrete shell; the only proof my body is still attached to my brain is the sweat-soaked mattress beneath me.

What remained of my senses were my last connections to reality. This once-fluid relationship I had with the world had narrowed to a faint, ever-shrinking window of perception.

I cannot move—but I can see.

I blink, grateful for that one small mercy, and let my gaze drift to the right, then to the left. Above me stretches a damp, discolored ceiling that surrendered any claim to whiteness long ago. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, their casings webbed with dust and cobwebs, making this place seem foreboding.

My ears are still working. What is this place?

The first clues come in sound: the distant clatter of metal carts and pans, along with the haunting moans of others. Their voices echo around me, drifting down an acoustic hall, some close enough to invade my nerves. The echoes alone made my heart shrivel.

I turn to the smells, hoping they might place my location.

A sharp disinfectant hangs in the air—pungent, insistent yet unable to mask the stale, unmistakable odor of human waste. This has to be a hospital. And that other smell… that must be neglect.

I strain to see. I force myself to listen. Every sensation becomes a harsh reminder of my own vulnerability, of the silent battle I now face in a body that has betrayed me. I hear footsteps and quiet chatter coming my way. Maybe I can learn something—anything—about what’s happened to me. Then comes the poking and prodding, followed by a disgruntled voice muttering curses under her breath.

I scream inside my own skull with a voice no one can hear, “Say something stupid!" Do something! Come on!”

My world began to shrink, tightening around my chest with an iron-clad indifference. Claustrophobia surged. An infinite terror flooded my senses, my breath became rapid, and I felt I was losing control, each gasp failing to find oxygen. Panic clawed through me; a drowning fear filling my body. There were no monitors. No alarms. My voice never left my skull. I was lost -until the nurse’s voice cut through, pulling me back from the edge of my waking nightmare.

“No need to feed him,” the nurse said. “He won’t last long.”

I could not believe my ears. Were they talking about me?

I blinked hard, trying to widen my narrow field of vision. The blonde nurse with the acorn‑sized mole wasn’t even looking at me, her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond my sightline, toward the source of those unearthly sounds.

Then the nurse spoke again. “Another double shift.” She let out a long, weary sigh. “They keep sending cases like this down here.”

A man with a gravelly, high‑pitched voice stepped closer. “Yeah. He’s been unresponsive for days. No family listed. Most here are like that.”

She adjusted something on the cart, her voice strained. “We’re short on staff. I can’t spend half an hour on someone who’s not improving.”

He nodded, not unkindly, just in agreement. “Administration’s already asking about bed availability.”

“Figures,” she muttered. “This floor always gets the overflow.”

He shrugged. “People down here… they fall through the cracks.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she placed her hands on my shoulder and hip. “Alright, let’s get this one turned.” With a quick, practiced motion, she rolled me onto my left side — a movement that felt to me like a sudden, brutal heave, though to her it was just routine.

For the first time, I saw the other half of the room. An elderly man lay on a rust-stained metal cot, skin stretched thin over a sack of bones. His mouth hung open, and the sound vibrating in his throat was that old, unmistakable rattle of death. The walls around us were a dingy blue, the paint peeling in long, jagged strips. No fresh coat in years. Was that black mold creeping along the corner?

The nurse seized me again, digging her fingernails, carelessly deep, and rolled me to my right in a savage manner. To her it was routine, to me, it felt savage. A young man came into view—and suddenly the noise made sense. His eyes were wide as if haunted by demons, sweat pouring off him profusely as his mouth mumbled and trembled unintelligible sounds. Patches of green iodine stained his skin, and part of his ear had been torn away. This had to be the one they meant— the kid whose mind had drifted somewhere beyond reach.

Then she flipped me onto my back again, leaving me staring up at the dusty, cobweb‑filled ceiling. One thought crossed my mind as her callous grip released off my body: What is the value of my life? As her heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, her words settled in my mind. To her, I wasn’t Victor. Was I even human?

Time dissolved. Was it day or was it night? I had lost track in the monotony. Everything felt unmeasured, unending, tedious, and suffocating. No one approached me except to hang another IV bag. I blinked, shifted my eyes, and tried to signal—but they ignored me. I think I’m getting better at it, though no one seems to notice.

A thought began to gnaw at my soul. In their eyes I was something less than human —maybe no longer Victor at all, just a burden waiting to be discarded.

I began to pray for death. Why was my body fighting for an existence I or they no longer wanted?

I searched for some fragile balance between my consciousness and my useless flesh, I found myself longing for the world that existed behind my eyelids. With my eyes open, all I had was the ceiling of No. 9. But when I closed them, something else waited—something gentler. So I let my eyes fall shut and allowed my mind to carry me toward forgotten memories. A soft pull draws me deeper into that inner world.

There she was—my late wife—standing in our kitchen, an ethereal glow drifting in from the window. The light caught the curve of her cheek, and she gave me that loving, knowing smile. The sight stirred a deep yearning in me, a longing to be with her. I heard the sizzle of onions in the pan, smelled garlic warming in olive oil, and felt her arm brush mine as we cooked together. It was familiar. It was wonderful.

Then the scene shifted, as dreams often do. I was upright again, hiking mountain trails, surrounded by towering snow capped peaks and mesmerized by the dappled light flickering through the canopy. Branches rustled overhead, a fresh breeze swept across my face—and rising within me was the feeling of freedom and something close to joy.

But when I opened my eyes, that world dissolved. My senses snapped back to the other reality—the one where my clammy skin clung to the mattress, with the heavy air of human excrement. Overtime I wondered which one was real—am I still tethered to the human world?

————

After many hours, days, or weeks, a ray of sunshine entered the room. It was a voice. I hadn't realized how starved my soul had become for kindness. Not sure how a butterfly was allowed into this dungeon of darkness, but I started crying. Will tears even fall? My eyes darted back and forth. Who is this? Please come a little closer. I screamed in my mind. “Please come closer. Please. Please.”

She was like sunlight for a plant in a forgotten, dark corner—or that much-needed hydration for a languishing houseplant. Despite everything, the thought made me laugh inside. My late wife had been a death sentence to any plant in the house. Poor things never stood a chance! How is it possible for me to laugh without laughing? Yet for a brief moment my soul smiled.

Then a young face appeared above me. She grinned and introduced herself as Anya. I wanted to ask her, "What brings you to this hellhole?" Her green eyes were full of light and kindness. No. 9 had not warped her.

Then she frowned.

“Hey there! I’m here to go over your orders. They’ve decided to discontinue your tube feeds and IV today. Has anyone spoken with you?”

She answered herself.

"Most likely not. . . I am so sorry you are here. So sorry you are going through this, Victor.” She continued to study me with heightening curiosity. For a moment, I thought she heard my mind screaming.

“Your eyes are watery. I wonder if you can hear me. Can I ask you something?”

My heart rate climbed! If only I were hooked up to a monitor—it would show my distress!

“I would like to try a little test.” She said. “They told me not to bother you. I just can’t shake this feeling. Listen—blink once for yes and twice for no. Deal?”

My eyelids trembled like frightened hands. Will I even pass this test?

She smiled patiently and, with a comforting ring to her voice, asked, “Can you hear me?”

I wasn’t sure if I blinked. My eyes stumbled at the attempt.

“It’s ok. Take your time. I will ask you again. Can you hear me?”

Blink.

“Good. Now let me double-check. Is your name Sasha?”

Blink. Blink.

“I knew it! Of course you’d know your own name—you're Victor!” She grinned.

“Do you know how you ended up here?”

Blink. Blink.

To communicate with another living being was incredible! It was as if she reached into dark waters where I’d been drowning and pulled me up for air, away from suffocation, away from the existential nightmare swallowing me whole. I finally felt human again!

“You collapsed outside in a parking lot sometime on the evening of August 7th.” She said gently. “You weren’t found for hours. You had a small envelope filled with nice art supplies. We think you might have had a stroke.”

Anya smiled and glanced around to make sure no one was near. She leaned close and whispered, “One more little test. Move your eyes up and then down… then left and right. Ok, sweetie?”

I am easily able to fulfill these commands. For the first time, I felt safe.

Her expression sharpened as if she uncovered a truth. She stood over me, looking me directly into my eyes. “I’m not unhooking anything from you. I am going to consult a doctor from another hospital. I think you might have something called 'locked-in syndrome.' It's rare but explains your symptoms. I’ll come back this evening.”

Blink.

She started to walk away, then spun back playfully.

“Do you like to paint, Mr. Victor?”

Blink.

“I like to paint too. Ok, I will be back.” And she hurried off.

Strangely, my eyes felt more comfortable open after this conversation. Yes, I am a painter. I had forgotten that. I was a master when it came to the canvas. A part of who I was—who I am—that this place smothered. I waited for her return with feverish anxiety, worried she was just a mirage concocted by my desperation.

Hours passed painfully slowly—before quick footsteps approached my cot.

“Victor, are you awake?”

Blink. Blink.

“Funny guy!” She laughed.

“Sorry it took so long. I spoke to the head neurologist, and he believes locked-in syndrome is the only logical explanation for your paralysis. Your cognitive awareness and clear eye movements are what give us a strong degree of certainty. We’ll need more tests, but… it seems clear.” She paused, placed her hand on mine and, with a concerned expression, said, “This must be terrifying.”

Blink.

Again, she checked the hallway and lowered her voice. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but we need to get you out of here. You understand why. I’ll try everything I can to get you transferred. It might be a few days, and I am sure no. 9 will fight this. I’ll make sure you keep your feeding tube and IV, okay?”

Blink.

“I have some paintings to show you,” she whispered. She pulled out a few pictures. She was talented—with great philosophical undertones. She talked art while I blinked back answers, and the world through my eyes grew less bleak by the minute.

Before leaving, she checked her watch. “While you are here, try to remember what you’ve heard and seen. You can be our silent witness. Can I record you answering a few questions?”

Blink.

She documented my ability to blink and asked about my care at hospital No. 9.

“I will return, Victor.” Her voice trembled. I could hear her light tread echo away.

————

Time marched on. Without Anya, the room grew solemn again. The warmth she brought had faded and Hospital no. 9 slipped back to its normal amount of darkness.

The old man to my right died. I heard them cart him away while laughing about his toenails. I don’t know why. They propped me on my side for the bedsores, so instead of the ceiling, I watched them place a middle-aged man on the unwashed cot beside me, with the same putrid sheets, as he moaned through alcohol withdrawal. His suffering burdened me into darkness.

Her absence left a hollow ache, so I drifted more often—slipping between the hellish scenes of No. 9 and the soft pull of the world behind my eyelids. My wife. The mountains. Fresh air. I felt myself slipping deeper into that inner reality.

Then something shifted. In a quasi-awakened state, I heard it.

Footsteps approached.

Heavy.

Familiar. Then a calloused and impatient grip sinks into my arm. My eyes fully awaken upon instinct.

A shadow leaned over me, blocking the weak fluorescent light. The scent of armpit and disinfectant announced her presence before her face came into view. It was the blonde nurse with the acorn-sized mole.

“Well,” she muttered, “looks like today’s the day. No more IV’s.” Her voice was flat, filled with unconcern.

Papers rustled. I could hear the clang of things dropping in a metallic bowl. Little stings around my arm. I could hear her heavy footsteps circle around me. She was unhooking my IV —leaving only one port.

Then she put her hand up to my nose and grasped something. I smelled her cigarette-scented hand as she pulled the feeding tube out. I gagged —my body convulsed in a way that was revolting.

“Used up your quota,” she said softly. “That’s all. Nothing personal.” There was a long pause. “Now we will be needing your bed for someone else.”

She looked at me directly—really looked at me. There was nothing in her eyes to read.

At first I was confused. Then I understood.

She knew!

She knew I was conscious.

I was a problem.

A complication.

A life not worth the trouble. She had always handled me with indifference, but this time I felt the truth of it— something less than human. Then she stepped out of view. I heard a gentle click as she pushed something into my last remaining IV port. “Orders are orders, Victor,” She muttered as if to herself. “If that was your name.”

I felt the air shift around me, like the atmospheric change before a storm breaks. Whatever is happening—this is not normal.

My heart thudded once—hard— then my whole chest squeezed as if imploding inward. Pain then numbness.

I wasn’t afraid.

Not anymore.

The nurse’s breath touched my ear, a final parting whisper.

“No one will notice. And no one cares.”

The ceiling blurred. The buzzing lights softened into a distant hum. The nurse’s silhouette wavered, dissolving into shadow. My remaining senses began to shut down one by one, disconnecting me from reality. The tunnel was closing. I felt myself slipping—not with violence, but drifting toward the place where memory awaited.

Somewhere far away, someone called my name.

“Victor… Victor…”

This noise jolted me and seemed to tug me strongly towards the reality of open eyes. Was it Anya?

Victor…Victor…!” The sound was garbled and closer.

I could only climb an inch toward that voice. My consciousness was moving and clinging to some metaphysical slippery slope that I could no longer clench. My grip failed—giving me a sinking sensation toward or away from the voice calling my name. Was it my wife? The question drifted off, losing form. It no longer mattered.

A flood of memories greeted me with a kind embrace.

Her voice in the kitchen.

The softness of her kiss.

The brush in my hand moving color across a canvas.

The delicate sunlight breaking through the trees.

These all lingered for a moment — a canvas of my life, each memory a brushstroke already fading. The flurry began to wane, and everything within me wanted to reach out one last time, wanting to hold a little longer to everything I had loved. Yet I felt my grip on Victor loosen, and in the fading distance, everything dimmed until nothing remained.