Panic

Random creepy thing.

Squeak. Squeak. A fan spun slowly above me, echoing eerily on the white floor tiles. I lay in a bed in a white hospital gown, a plastic mask around my face, the gas making me dizzy and blurring my vision. A heart monitor was next to me, silent. At the other end of the room was someone in a doctor's outfit and dental mask, a tray of medical apparatus in front of him, scalpels, blades and tweezers designed to carve and peel and slice. The man didn't move. I didn't either -- I was rooted to the spot as effectively as if I had been chained. I couldn't have moved even if I wanted to. Not just because I was too afraid, but my muscles wouldn't tense or move. My brain didn't have control of my limbs any more. The heart monitor I was hooked up to should have been going wild, but it didn't make a noise. The silence settled around my heart like a cold blanket, squeezing all the warmth out. Why weren't my hands sweating? Why wasn't my pulse racing? Why wasn't I finding it hard to breathe?
The man selected a lethal looking instrument, then strode closer and bent over me.
Panic gripped my throat.