Done Adulting Vol. 1 Ch. 8 (Patreon)

“I think he’s waking up,” Eric heard, echoing as if in a tunnel, but close. It was a soft voice, tentative.

“Are you waking up, hun? Are you waking up,” Eric heard, echoing still, but closer than before. It was another soft voice, higher, the voice one uses when speaking gently to a very young child, melodic, overly enunciated, excited, abbreviated. Trapped behind his eyelids, Eric heard the voices in the blackness. He couldn’t move his body, and he couldn’t open his eyes. He felt warm, constricted, and heavy, one element of consciousness returning at a time, snippets of sounds and signals reaching his brain.

“Hello in there. Hello,” one of the voices softly sang. “Are you waking up?”

Eric was understanding now, and he struggled to move his body, each part coming alive in a slow crawl of sensation, but he couldn’t yet open his eyes. Too heavy, too tired, until they flicked open enough to let in a little light, falling closed again. And open a little wider, but blurred, and falling closed again.

Now able to keep them open, but not yet to focus them, Eric instinctively tried to sit up. He found it was painful and realized he was not flat on his belly, but half upright in an attitude his body wasn’t used to. Something gently pushed him back down, and he tried again, turning this time to his left and expecting his elbow to catch on something to push against, but there was nothing.

“He’s a squirmy little thing.”

Tired from the effort, Eric went limp against something soft. He opened his eyes and concentrated, but the light was harsh. His pupils constricted, and he squinted, trying again to bring the world into focus. His face was close to something, too close to see the whole of it.

Slowly rotating his head, still resting it against the surface, he saw the outline of a person sitting a few feet away. Or rather the torso of a person, and craning his head upward, the shape of a face framed by light scattered through blond hair to create a glow that made it harder still to bring the scene into focus.

Turning upward, at least two feet above him, another face, looking down. Smiling eyes took form, and the conscious part of his brain solved the puzzle. Control of his body returning more quickly, his muscles retrieving their power, Eric looked down to find a pair of giant, socked feet at the end of the giant legs directly under him. Looking back up, he saw the person was seated in a chair, her face too close to entirely fit in the frame of his vision.

From spine to amygdala to hypothalamus, cortisol and adrenaline flooded Eric’s body. His heartrate rose, his breathing grew fast and shallow, his senses sharpened, his muscles contracted, his skin grew warm. Sudden and total sobriety.

“Shh, shh, honey …”

Eric thrashed to his left and right, but something was stopping him from rotating his hips around. He tried to climb, but something was holding him down.

“You’re okay. Shh. You’re safe.”

Eric’s body knew better, and he pressed himself away from the surface in front of him. It gave just a little, but still his hips were not free, and he couldn’t move himself. Flight gave way to panic. He kicked and swung his arms with no coordination or target, trying only to get away.

“Hand me the pen.”

Hyperventilating, blood pressure surging, the edges of Eric’s vision grew black. He vaguely felt something pressed against his thigh, and suddenly his limbs went heavy again and the adrenaline ran out, and Eric could do nothing to stop his heart from pumping the sedative to his brain.

He was asleep again.

“That was scary.”

“Think of how it felt for him, poor little guy. I’m going to put him in bed. He’ll probably sleep for an hour or so.”