Accused Criminal

Echoing in her foggy mind, a steady beep hiss beep woke her. Her thoughts did not pick up where they had left off after blacking out, handcuffed and in some room with the man she had killed. But instead, she questioned where she was. There was a weight against her body, something light that smothered her legs and hips with heat. Her joints ached. Limbs seemed to be suspended with minimal sensation, but she could detect a pinch in the skin at the elbow and again on the back of her hand. Throat parched and lips cracked, she craved a cool glass of iced water. Lashes stuck together, crusted with sleep, and a grogginess continued to pull down at her mind; however, the thirst compelled her.

Pale blue eyes peeked open, light striking the pupils and she squinted.

“Mrs. Andrews? Mrs. Andrews, can you hear me?” A gruff, masculine voice bombarded her ears.
As her eyes peeled open, adjusting to the florescent lighting, Mrs. Andrews observed a white room and a large, burly man leaning over her. He wore a long white coat, a doctor’s coat, and shone a light into her eyes as they wandered this way and that, never remaining on one object for long.

The doctor, or the man she assumed was a doctor, returned the light to a pocket on his white coat and turned to a beeping monitor. “Your vitals,” he talked, facing away from her, “are strong, but you were very touch and go for a while.”

“Wah,” her throat screamed in protest, “water.”

“Yes.” He continued to study a monitor and Lana Andrews glared at his broad shoulders. About the same height as her husband, six feet two inches, the doctor had a slightly hunched posture. A large hand held a clipboard at his side and beneath the coat he wore scrubs, obscuring but not totally masking the burly build. After a long, painfully drawn out moment, he brought a paper cup to her lips and promptly poured the warm water over her parted lips. “Now, Mrs. Andrews, you are in the hospital. You have multiple broken bones, burns, and more than one hundred stitches. Also, the police want to talk to you.” The doctor tossed the paper cup into a small waste-bin and turned his back to her once more.

When he left, Lana turned her attention to her body. She was now fully away of just how many aches and pains ran through her fibers, but upon glancing down a gasp jumped from her throat. Aware of the situation she had survived, it should not have been so shocking to find her arms were wrapped in gauze and where the white skin showed, there were rows of stitches. Even more shocking was the metal handcuff clasped to each wrist and holding her to the hospital bed. The weight she had sensed against her legs and waist was nothing more than a thin blanket, but beneath the gray cover Lana identified the rectangular boot along her left leg. Two IVs ran into her right arm and two monitors were hooked up to her, one attached to her pointer finger and the other carefully attached to her chest. Each breath was labored and burned as it passed through her nostrils and down into her lungs. Lana had no manner of discovering how grave or how many her injuries were but her body protested the slightest movement and she guessed that the condition she was now in was much better than the state she had been found in.

That is when it came back to her, the conversation that had occurred as she slipped into darkness. The police thought that she had murdered someone; she needed to tell them why that had happened, what had brought her to that breaking point.

38 years old, Lana had lived a comfortable life up until this point. She had married young, 18 years old right out of high school, a man ten years older than herself. At the age of 22 she had given birth to a daughter and they had never tried to get pregnant again. Mr. Andrews was from a wealthy family and he graduated top of his class at law school and worked for private companies and wealthy individuals. He was unscrupulous and greedy, but lavished his wife and daughter. In the summer, the girls went on lengthy exotic vacations, and were spoiled by gifts sporadically. She had lived a safe, cozy life, on top of a hill in a large house in Colorado. The torture, the unexplained kidnapping and pain, that had pushed her over an edge into a pit of darkness and anger that consumed her mind.

The door to her hospital room swung open and two large men stalked in, approaching her bed and eyeing her with suspicion. Both of the men were just over six foot and physically fit, their builds suggesting an active life style. She considered for a moment that they could easily be brothers; their faces where similar square shapes and they both had brown eyes though the blonde man’s eyes were a touch lighter than the other man whose hair was a rich brown. Although they appeared to be in peak shape, both men were well in their thirties if not just hitting the early forties.

“I’m Detective Peterson.” The man with brown hair introduced himself and then jabbed a finger to the blonde. “My partner Detective Mathews.” With the exception of Peterson’s trench coat, the detectives were even dressed similarly. “You need to tell us what happened. You have the right to have a lawyer present at any time.” They were reading her Miranda rights and Lana began breathing quickly, her thoughts racing.

“I want to see my husband.” Mr. Andrews would have the answers she need.

Peterson nodded as Mathews turned away, boot clad feet stomping across the tile floor.

Lana didn’t expect her husband to be at her bedside while she was in the hospital; it had not surprised her to awake without him there. So, she was surprised when he entered a few seconds after the detectives exited.

“Lana,” Mr. Andrews closed the door and looked at his wife.

“Howard,” each word she croaked out scratched her throat. He was dressed for work, a gray suit tailored to his frame and his graying but otherwise rich brown hair brushed back and styled. A blue tie was perfectly positioned at his neck.

“What happened?” He did not bother with a warm reunion or touching sentiments, but got down to business as he had a penchant for dealing with business.

Attempting a deep breath, Lana began a fit of coughing. Her lungs were throbbing and her throat was sandpaper. With her hands cuffed to the hospital bed, Lana jerked against the railings as her body was forced forward. Pain shot through her and hot tears began to build in her eyes, trickling into her eyelashes.

Mr. Andrews sighed and extended a paper cup filled with water to her as the coughing subsided. She gulped it down, nearly starting another coughing fit.

“I,” she began, staring at the foot of her bed, “was just walking home from the store… someone must have grabbed me, drugged me. I- I woke up and was chained to a chair in this dark, bleak room.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks and she choked on her words. The hospital room blurred before her eyes and was replaced with images of the gray room. Lana’s stomach knotted and she shook her head violently as she sobbed. What had become of her? “How long was I gone for?” Lana turned her tear filled blue eyes towards her husband, meeting a dry-eyed gaze.

“A couple of days passed before I could file a missing persons report with the police. Then it took a couple more days to find you. Four days missing in that place and you have been in the hospital for a week. Now, Lana, tell me what happened while you were there.”

Sniffling, she shifted uncomfortably on the bed and then began to speak. “There was a man and he kept… he was torturing me. He removed my… my nails and c-cut me, beat me. He shoved a hose down my throat… I kept screaming. The- the man was so methodical.”

“How did you get out of the chains?”

“I beat them with a poker.”

Howard nodded. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you’ll have to go over it, in detail, a few times, Lana.”

Closing her eyes, she began a new round of sobs. Lana wanted it to be a nightmare, a horrid nightmare she would awake from shortly. “Look at me, Howard. This is what happened to me. Why am I cuffed to a bed? I’m not dangerous. I’m not a bad person.”

“I know Lana, but a man is dead. You did kill him.”

“He… he tortured me. He cut my feet and arms and and everything. That man, that crazy person beat me and burned me.”

“Lana,” his voice was rough, commanding her silence. “You need to be able to present details. If we end up at trial, your emotions will read perfectly, but now, I need to know the facts of what happened so I can help you prepare for the detectives. I am going to ask that they un-cuff you from the bed”

“Howard…” Lana sighed, “Thank you for being here.”

Nodding, Howard left the room, and Lana watched him leave, counting the steps between the bed and the door. When she was alone again, she tried to settle her head on the pillow. The bed was small and uncomfortable; the handcuffs didn’t help with the uncomfortable position and her leg which was in the boot had begun to itch a couple of minutes previous.

She closed her eyes and sighed, allowing her ears to adjust to the sounds of the room. Over the beeping of the machines and the heavy breathing she emitted, Lana heard whoosh of a vent of air and low male voices. Mumbled and muffled by the walls, she could not determine whose voices they were, but Lana could identify sections of their conversation.

“She’s a murderer,” man one spoke.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” said the second man who she believed was her husband. “She should be fine to un-cuff however.”

“Lock ‘er up; that’s what I say.”

“We need to ask her some questions,” man one’s muffled voice rose.

“Not at this time.” Lana thought it was the doctor that spoke this time. “She needs rest to recover.”

Man one’s voice rose, clearly drifting into the room. “Her memory is best now!”

“No. She is not in a condition to be drilled by a couple of cops.”

“Detectives.”

“It is still a no.”

The doctor did not acknowledge her as he moved into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Lana closed her eyes, preferring the images that crawled up from her memory over the sense of judgment she received each time she glanced at the doctor.
Her mind conjured the worst imagery to consume Lana.