Maven : Part Two

It was the headache that I became aware of first, this time around. A sharp, dull, unrelenting pain that split down the middle of my head. The back of my left eye socket throbbed and as I drew in air, my puffed cheekbone stretched my sore, battered face. The air felt cool as it graced my lungs but owned a peculiar scent of bleach and vomit. Slowly, my awareness spread to my arms and legs which told me I was on a soft surface; something that felt like a bed. That was when the first memories trickled back into my mind’s eye.

This was my third, maybe fourth, awakening today.

I couldn’t place a concept of time just yet. I knew I was safe. I knew my wounds felt better, despite the immense pain I was in. My groggily pieced together chronological overview was that I was in danger, and now I wasn’t. The hard stone behind my head had been replaced by fresh linen. The chilling rain that’d soaked me, replaced by warm, stale air. The sharp, unforgiving pain in my side, now a dulled discomfort that hurt upon movement. I wasn’t content, but I was safe and for now, that was an improvement. One distinct image did flash into my mind, for the briefest of moments; a man called Kevin and an a series of pills that I’d been prescribed. Fighting their weight I was gradually able to force my eyelids apart.

It appeared to be morning. To my immediate front I found a window from which harsh morning sunlight, and its distinct soft off-yellow, poured into a medical ward. I was one of three occupied beds in the room; the fourth lying empty. But as I sat upright in my bed to get a better look around, I found I could do so with relative ease. I felt down my side to where the wound had been. It still possessed a dull ache, but nothing as bad as what I’d felt when I’d woken up a few minutes prior. It then occurred to me that my sense of time was likely skewed, and my memories likely followed suit.

But it was more than just my side.

My arms, once sluggish and cumbersome, were now agile and responsive. I could twist my torso with relative ease, even though one side still felt tight were the wound had been. My neck and head felt somewhat bloated, as if I was suffering from mild hayfever, but were otherwise fine. Where there had once been untolerable pain there was barely an itch. The ward door swinging open caught me off guard,

“Oh, you’re up again,” it was a woman, a nurse, entering with fresh sheets and bedding, “Do you need something?” She asked. Her attention was split between where I lay and the empty bed across from me, which she began to strip. I drew in air and tried my voice,

“What-” A dry catch stole my air and sent me into a brief coughing fit. The nurse stopped tending to the bed and handed me a small plastic cup, filled half-full, with water. I took a sip to clear my throat, but found my lips glued to the cup rim. The water felt glorious. Each mouthful made me feel better, almost instantaneously. The nurse had gone back to making the empty bed when I tried my voice again,

“What happened?” I finally managed. The nurse glanced up from the bed, but kept tucking and folding at the fabrics,

“You don’t remember?” She probed. For a nurse she was bad at hiding her concern.

“Not really,” was all I could manage. My throat was crisp and sore. Every word I squeezed out stung the back of my mouth.

“Well, I’ll let the Doctor know. Do you want more water?” She was folding up the dirty bedding by this point. With my throat still aching, I nodded to her, without speaking a word. “Okay John, i’ll be back in a minute,” she said, leaving. John. Was that my name? I looked around the room. All the other patients were either sleeping or out cold, I couldn’t tell either way. Their bed side stands were reasonably empty, and clean, so they must not have woken this morning yet. My thoughts were cut short when the nurse returned with a cup of water in hand,

“There you go,” she handed me the cup, and I immediately began drinking. The water felt just as cool and just as refreshing as the first cup had. I could see the nurse checking a clipboard that hung on the side of my bed – my chart – and then looking towards me with a strange expression. I’d never seen a look like that before. It was one of bewilderment, but one that held an undertone of suspicion. She hung the chart back on the side of the bed and leaned in towards me,

“Let’s just take a closer look at you. See if you need anything before I continue my rounds.” She reached to the cabinet that lined the wall, opened it, and took out various pieces of medical apparatus. I didn’t recognise any of the devices, aside from the blood pressure measurement machine. This what was she presented to me first, holding out the arm cuff and nodding.

“It won’t bite,” she smiled. I slid my arm inside the cuff link and it was fastened around my bicep. She switched the machine on, which made a whirring noise, and I felt a pressure against my skin. The arm cuff was squeezing my bicep for a few moments and stopped abruptly. The nurse frowned.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she staggered each word as she inspected the machine, then the arm cuff, and then the machine again. “Are you feeling any pressure on your arm?” she followed up.

“Yes, a little,” I answered, looking down at the arm cuff.

“It can’t seem to measure a pulse,” she took the arm cuff off, “One moment, John. I’ll be right back.” And with this she placed the machine inside the cabinet and left. I glanced from side to side. The other patients had barely moved, so I decided to make one of my own. I pushed the covers to one side and swung my legs out to the side and stood from the bed. Nothing hurt. I had a few stiff muscles but no wounds of any kind. The gown I wore barely covered my lower half, so I quickly rummaged around inside the cabinet but found no luck. As I went to turn for the door a plastic bag sticking out from underneath the bed caught my eye, inside I could see clothing. But mine will have blood on them. The next bed over belonged to an older man who wasn’t moving or stirring at my movements in any way and, under his bed, was another bag.

I wasted no time, moving quickly but quietly, to the man’s bed and stole the bag from under it. Inside was a tan suit jacket with matching trousers, padded white trainers, a rather pungent pair of socks, dirty underwear, and a lightly striped suit shirt. I left the underwear, including the socks, but donned the suit. Whilst pulling on the trousers I heard loose chain rattle in the pockets. Likewise, when pulling the slightly over-sized suit jacket on, a flip phone was stowed away inside the chest pouch. I made for the door, peeking through the horizontal window blinds as I did so. The corridor beyond looked empty and when I stepped outside the ward, I confirmed it so. This is easier than I thought.

There was no signage that I could readily see immediately outside my ward door, but to one end was a fire escape and the other led, presumably deeper, into the hospital. It took all but a few moments to reach the fire escape, and when I looked back, saw the nurse turning the corner into the corridor. I was out the escape and down the flight of stairs before she had a chance to notice me; I hoped.

The fire escape led out of the hospital into a large loading bay of sorts. To one end of the open space was a van with men loading boxes from it’s back into the hospital. The other end of the loading bay was secured by a reasonably high brick wall and what looked like a sturdy remote controlled gate. Boxed in next to the gate was a security booth. But then the most peculiar feeling overtook me. I felt my head swirl, my feet tangle, and my torso begin to topple towards the ground. It was as if the world itself had been tipped on its axis.

I expected my body to slam into rough concrete but the only sensation that came was one of water, then, like before, darkness.

---

About Maven; A Urban Fantasy Fiction Anthology

A Fantasy Anthology Series like no other.

MAVEN is a gritty, slow-burn supernatural fantasy series blending the raw survival of urban thrillers with dark, eerie folklore. Perfect for fans of dark urban fantasy, occult mysteries, and body horror.

He thought waking up in a hospital bed meant he was saved. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Tagged with the name “John” and haunted by fractured memories, he awakens to find his fatal injuries vanishing at an impossible speed. The agonizing pain is gone, replaced by an unnatural, surging vitality. But when a nurse tries to take his blood pressure, the machine confirms what his fading humanity refuses to accept: there is no pulse left to find.

Ditching his gown for a stolen suit, he makes a desperate dash into the morning light to escape the ward. But as reality warps beneath his feet and douses him in darkness once more, one chilling truth remains—he isn’t just recovering from death. He’s leaving it behind.

---

About Lore Publication

Welcome to Lore Publication! If this is your first time here with us, we encourage you to take a look through our free fiction offerings to find a story that resonates with you. We are a small, independent publication that wants to give writers a platform to share their unique voices – in a time where our voices matter more than they ever have.

Maven is the first original series developed for Lore by its Founder, a Scottish writer, Stewart Storrar. For this urban fantasy fiction series, he wanted to blend a modern Scottish setting with traditional Scottish Folklore to breathe life into his own, contemporary interpretation of his culture’s tales.

Want more?

FAQs About Maven: An Anthology Series