Waking up

I read a lot of literary agent interviews.  Inevitably, the question of "What do you hate to see on an opening page?" comes up, and one of the most common answers is "waking up".  They are quick to explain that it can be done well, and it can have significance, but if you're just starting at waking up ... well, just because ... you're probably better off starting somewhere else.

So, my challenge this week is: Write a "waking up" opening scene that has something unique or significant about it, something that would justify its use as an opening scene, not just another kid waking up and climbing out of bed.

Enjoy!

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My response:

(I'd like to take a moment to say that I do usually come up with these prompts on the spot.  There is sometimes that tickle, somewhere between the thrill of a roller coaster with my stomach dropping out from under me and the turning of my gut before I lose my lunch.  In that moment, I doubt my capabilities as a writer, and I worry about what kind of drivel I'm about to write and post to the internet.  Then I swallow, let my mind go, and pray it won't be too terribly bad.  Yep.  That feeling right there.  Well, here goes!)

There was too much light.  Even with my eyes closed, I squinted against the brightness piercing my lids.  It was as if I'd been in a cave for a year, then sought out the sunlight, only to find I was blinded by the sun.  I had no idea then how close that thought came to the truth.

The sounds came next.  The incessant beeping.  It was like something out of my mother's daytime dramas, the heart monitor and the whirring of a blood pressure machine.  Except there was no TV, or at least, if there was, it wasn't on.  And the next thing I felt was the tightening of the band on my arm and the pulling of tape at certain spots on my skin.

I wanted to open my eyes and look around, but they refused.  Instead, I stretched, rolling my shoulders and taking inventory of all my limbs.

Whispered curses, and I heard the clang of metal on metal.  "Are you awake?!"  Then footsteps, retreating.

I breathed in, filling my lungs.  No pain.  Only the ache of having slept too long in one position.  Why was there no pain?  If I'd been in a car accident, if I'd been sick ... anything that would have landed me in a hospital ought to have left me in pain, but as far as I could tell, I was whole.

Footsteps, more than one set of them, came back into the room.  I managed to force my lids apart, just a slit, and three forms moved between me and the light.

"Kimber?"  Yes, that was my name.  Kimber.  "Kimber.  This is Dr. Marx.  Can you open your eyes, sweetheart?"

I did.  Dr. Marx had skin that hung from his neck, like a starving vulture, and a beak to match it, with beady little eyes.  His voice, though, was deep and rolling, like the far off rumble of thunder.

I opened my mouth to speak, but found my tongue and mouth too dry.  My lips stuck together awkwardly. 

"Nurse ..."  A blue figure bent over me, and I felt a swab moving across my lips, drops seeping into my mouth.

"That's better, now," Dr. Marx went on.  "Go ahead Amber, try again."

My lips moved, but no sound came out.  I remembered there was more to speaking than just my lips.  My sound box quacked like a dying seagull.  I tried again.

"What ... what ... happened?"

"Don't you worry about that now, Kimber, you are tired."  I felt the calming stroke of a hand on my arm and let my eyes drop closed again.  "Rest now.  We'll talk soon."

I felt my mind dropping away, drifting off to sleep, but I heard the nurse's question.

"Have you ever seen someone come out of a coma after five years, Dr.?"