The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller Read Online Free
Author: Shalini Boland
sleep again.
When they finally do leave and I’m able to close my eyes, all I can think about is the name “Mia James”, and whether or not it belongs to me.
Chapter Four
I soften my gaze against the glare of harsh hospital lights, and wrinkle my nose at the sharp smell of disinfectant, so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat. My whole body pulses with nerves as I lie here on the scanner table, my head secured in some kind of cradle. I opted not to listen to music, so instead I’m wearing earplugs, and all I can hear is the blood whooshing through my body and thud of my heartbeats. Occasionally, the radiographer’s voice breaks through this muffled seclusion, as he issues instructions and reassurances through my earplugs.
Because I had a couple of bumps to the back of my head, and because of the amnesia, they’re using this magnetic resonance imaging scanner to check for damage or abnormalities in my brain. Dr Lazowski assured me this scan is “just routine”. But everything starts off that way, doesn’t it. It’s all “just routine” until they find something; then it’s not routine anymore.
I take a deep breath as the motorised bed begins to shift me towards the giant doughnut-shaped machine. My head will sit inside the hole while they take images of my brain. It’s pretty clever really and if I weren’t so freaked out I’d marvel at the technology. But I am freaking out. I’m panicking, my breathing heavier, less regular. My heartbeats begin to race away. The whooshing of my blood threatening to drown out everything.
‘That’s it, you’re doing great,’ the radiographer says in my earpiece. My hands are together, resting on my stomach, my fingers interlocked. My palms sweaty. I have this sudden, awful image of a crematorium, of a coffin on a conveyor belt sliding inexorably towards a red velvet curtain behind which lies a roaring incinerator. The urge to get up and run is overwhelming. Think of something else. Think of something else. My head approaches the scanner. ‘You’re doing so well,’ the voice in my ear tells me. ‘Almost there, and then we can start getting some images.’ His no-nonsense voice jolts me out of my panic. I’m okay, I tell myself. They’re just going to take some pictures and then it will all be over.
They warned me about the banging noise the machine would make, but even with the earplugs, it still makes me jump. It’s a good thing my head is held in place. I concentrate on my breathing. I close my eyes and tell myself to let go of the panic. To think of something calming. This machine is here to help me. These people are here to help me. I breathe in, and out, slowing my heartbeats and easing my fear. The mind is an incredible thing – it can steer you to madness, or furnish you with comfort. I relax my brain and try to conjure up a restful image. I see water, but instead of feeling scared by it, I am soothed. I see dappled light playing across inky blue ripples. I hear a steady splash, splash, splash. Feel warm sunlight on my face. Is this a daydream? Or a memory?
The rest of the scan passes without incident, and before I know it, it’s over.
I’m sitting on my bed, flicking through old magazines. I’m restless. Bored. I’ve been outside into the courtyard gardens. I’ve lingered in the cafeteria. Wandered the corridors. Been into the TV lounge with its endless rolling news. I thought I might have caught a glimpse of myself on television, but after an hour of depressing world calamities, I gave up and left the room. I’d like to wear some proper clothes. These donated pyjamas are making me think I’m ill, when I’m not. I’m sure I won’t be able to stay here much longer anyway. I’m taking up a bed when I don’t really need it. But where can I go? I have no home that I know of.
As I laze in bed, I watch the nurses moving around the ward, kind and efficient. Dr Lazowski says the danger has passed. That I’m no longer dehydrated
When they finally do leave and I’m able to close my eyes, all I can think about is the name “Mia James”, and whether or not it belongs to me.
Chapter Four
I soften my gaze against the glare of harsh hospital lights, and wrinkle my nose at the sharp smell of disinfectant, so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat. My whole body pulses with nerves as I lie here on the scanner table, my head secured in some kind of cradle. I opted not to listen to music, so instead I’m wearing earplugs, and all I can hear is the blood whooshing through my body and thud of my heartbeats. Occasionally, the radiographer’s voice breaks through this muffled seclusion, as he issues instructions and reassurances through my earplugs.
Because I had a couple of bumps to the back of my head, and because of the amnesia, they’re using this magnetic resonance imaging scanner to check for damage or abnormalities in my brain. Dr Lazowski assured me this scan is “just routine”. But everything starts off that way, doesn’t it. It’s all “just routine” until they find something; then it’s not routine anymore.
I take a deep breath as the motorised bed begins to shift me towards the giant doughnut-shaped machine. My head will sit inside the hole while they take images of my brain. It’s pretty clever really and if I weren’t so freaked out I’d marvel at the technology. But I am freaking out. I’m panicking, my breathing heavier, less regular. My heartbeats begin to race away. The whooshing of my blood threatening to drown out everything.
‘That’s it, you’re doing great,’ the radiographer says in my earpiece. My hands are together, resting on my stomach, my fingers interlocked. My palms sweaty. I have this sudden, awful image of a crematorium, of a coffin on a conveyor belt sliding inexorably towards a red velvet curtain behind which lies a roaring incinerator. The urge to get up and run is overwhelming. Think of something else. Think of something else. My head approaches the scanner. ‘You’re doing so well,’ the voice in my ear tells me. ‘Almost there, and then we can start getting some images.’ His no-nonsense voice jolts me out of my panic. I’m okay, I tell myself. They’re just going to take some pictures and then it will all be over.
They warned me about the banging noise the machine would make, but even with the earplugs, it still makes me jump. It’s a good thing my head is held in place. I concentrate on my breathing. I close my eyes and tell myself to let go of the panic. To think of something calming. This machine is here to help me. These people are here to help me. I breathe in, and out, slowing my heartbeats and easing my fear. The mind is an incredible thing – it can steer you to madness, or furnish you with comfort. I relax my brain and try to conjure up a restful image. I see water, but instead of feeling scared by it, I am soothed. I see dappled light playing across inky blue ripples. I hear a steady splash, splash, splash. Feel warm sunlight on my face. Is this a daydream? Or a memory?
The rest of the scan passes without incident, and before I know it, it’s over.
I’m sitting on my bed, flicking through old magazines. I’m restless. Bored. I’ve been outside into the courtyard gardens. I’ve lingered in the cafeteria. Wandered the corridors. Been into the TV lounge with its endless rolling news. I thought I might have caught a glimpse of myself on television, but after an hour of depressing world calamities, I gave up and left the room. I’d like to wear some proper clothes. These donated pyjamas are making me think I’m ill, when I’m not. I’m sure I won’t be able to stay here much longer anyway. I’m taking up a bed when I don’t really need it. But where can I go? I have no home that I know of.
As I laze in bed, I watch the nurses moving around the ward, kind and efficient. Dr Lazowski says the danger has passed. That I’m no longer dehydrated
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