The morning sun hit my face with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
I groaned, trying to shield my eyes with a forearm that felt heavy and sluggish. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was the first thing to greet me, followed immediately by a sharp, throbbing pressure in my lower body.
I looked down at the thin hospital sheet covering me. It was tented up. High.
Great.
It was the morning wood to end all morning woods. A monolith of granite. But unlike the usual morning stiffness that fades after a yawn and a stretch, this felt... different. It was angry. It felt like my blood had turned into liquid lead and pooled entirely between my legs.
I shifted my hips, wincing. It wasn't just arousal; it was an ache, a desperate demand for attention.
From the other side of the curtain, I heard the clinking of a spoon against a bowl.
"Good morning," a voice mumbled.
It was the lady. The neighbor. The Passions of the Valleys fan.
My mind instantly flashed back to the darkness of the previous night. The rhythmic squeaking of the bed. The breathless whimpers. She was masturbating.
I froze. Does she know I heard her?
"M-morning," I stammered, my voice cracking.
There was a pregnant pause.
"The oatmeal is terrible," she said, her voice unusually small. "It tastes like wet cardboard."
I sensed the embarrassment radiating from her side of the room. She knew. Or at least, she suspected that I was awake last night. The brazen, loud-mouthed woman who had ranted about her husband for three hours was now meek as a mouse.
"I... I haven't eaten yet," I said, trying to be diplomatic.
I tried to sit up, but the friction of the sheet against my erection sent a jolt of electricity straight to my brain. It was so intense I gasped.
Okay, I need to deal with this.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I announced, swinging my legs off the bed.
I grabbed the IV pole, using it as a crutch, and shuffled toward the small ensuite bathroom attached to our ward. As I passed her curtain, I caught a glimpse of her. She was staring intently at her oatmeal, her face flushed a deep crimson. She didn't look up.
I closed the bathroom door and locked it. Finally, privacy.
I leaned against the sink, breathing heavily. The pressure was unbearable. It felt like I had been injected with pure adrenaline. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but not from fear—from a raw, primal need.
Just get it over with, I told myself. Quick release, then figure out who the hell I am.
I loosened the drawstring of the hospital pants.
I wrapped my hand around myself. I closed my eyes, waiting for the familiar sensation, the build-up, the relief.
Nothing.
I frowned. I moved my hand, stroking, trying to find the rhythm.
Still nothing.
It was the strangest sensation. I could feel my hand—I knew I was touching myself—but the pleasure centers of my brain were completely disconnected. It was like I was touching someone else's arm. It was like gripping a piece of wood.
"What the..."
I tried harder. Faster. I gritted my teeth, focusing my mind on anything erotic. I thought about the curves of Doctor Evans. I thought about the sounds the neighbor made last night.
My body reacted to the thoughts—the erection got harder, more painful—but my hand? My hand was useless.
It was like trying to tickle yourself. It simply didn't work.
"Come on," I hissed, sweat beading on my forehead. "Work, dammit."
I spent ten minutes in that bathroom, fighting a losing battle against my own anatomy. The more I tried, the more frustrating it became. The pressure didn't release; it just built up behind a dam that refused to break.
I eventually gave up, panting and terrified.
Am I broken?
I washed my hands, defeated, and shuffled back out. The pain in my groin was now a dull, throbbing headache that matched the one in my skull.
As I climbed back into bed, the door to the ward swung open.
"Morning rounds," a crisp voice announced.
Doctor Evans marched in, her white coat flowing behind her like a cape. Her daughter, Dr. Grace, trailed behind her, clutching a stack of files and looking like she hadn't slept a wink.
"How are we feeling today, John Doe?" Evans asked, stopping at the foot of my bed. She used the placeholder name casually, reminding me that I was still a nobody.
"I... my head hurts less," I said. "But..."
I glanced at the tent in my sheets. It was impossible to miss.
Dr. Grace followed my gaze. Her eyes widened, and she immediately looked down at her clipboard, her cheeks turning pink.
Doctor Evans, however, didn't blink. She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing slightly. There was no embarrassment in her gaze. It was cold. Clinical. Calculating.
"Discomfort?" she asked.
"It won't go down," I whispered, humiliated. "It hurts."
Evans hummed. She didn't look concerned. If anything, a flicker of something like satisfaction crossed her face. She pulled a pen from her pocket and clicked it.
"Grace, note this down. Prolonged priapism. High vascular response."
"Y-yes, Mother. I mean, Doctor," Grace stammered, scribbling furiously.
"Is it... is it because of the accident?" I asked.
Evans moved to the side of the bed. "In a manner of speaking. Your body went through significant trauma. We had to administer a cocktail of experimental... recovery drugs to stabilize your nervous system. You were in critical condition. We didn't have next of kin to sign off, but it was life or death."
She said it so smoothly. Experimental recovery drugs.
"This represents a surplus of vitality," Evans continued. She reached out to check my pulse.
As her fingers brushed my wrist, a jolt went through me.
It wasn't just a touch. The moment her skin made contact with mine, the throbbing pain in my groin subsided by a fraction. It was as if a cooling balm had been applied to a burn.
I gasped softly.
Evans noticed my reaction. She looked at her hand on my wrist, then back at my face. She smiled. It was a terrifyingly knowing smile.
"Interesting," she murmured.
"What is?"
"Your parasympathetic nervous system seems to be reacting to external stimuli, but ignoring internal ones," she said, using words that meant nothing to me. "Essentially, your body is seeking a connection to regulate itself."
"I just want it to stop hurting," I said.
"It will," she said. She let go of my wrist, and the ache returned instantly, sharper than before. "But we cannot keep you here forever. Physically, you are healed. The MRI shows your brain swelling has vanished completely. It's actually remarkable."
"You're kicking me out?"
"We are discharging you," she corrected. "We are not a hotel, and you have no insurance. However..."
She glanced at Grace.
"Grace, change his dressing on the IV site before discharge. Make sure to check for skin sensitivity."
Grace looked up, startled. "Me? But the nurse usually—"
"Do it," Evans ordered.
The young doctor swallowed hard and stepped forward. "Okay. Um. Can I have your arm?"
I held out my arm. Grace's hands were soft, shaking slightly. She began to peel back the tape of the IV.
Her fingers grazed my inner forearm.
Oh, god.
The relief was instant and overwhelming. It was better than the mother. Where Evans' touch was a cooling balm, Grace's nervous, soft touch was like a wave of pure pleasure washing over the pain.
My breath hitched. The tent in the sheets twitched visibly.
Grace froze. She felt it too—the way my muscles relaxed under her touch, the way the tension left my body. She looked at me, her brown eyes wide with confusion and a strange curiosity.
"Is that... better?" she whispered, so low her mother couldn't hear.
"Yes," I breathed. "Don't stop."
She bit her lip, her face flushing darker. She took her time cleaning the area, her fingers lingering on my skin longer than necessary. For those two minutes, I was in heaven. The pain didn't vanish, but it became manageable. It became pleasurable.
"Done," Evans announced, cutting the moment short.
Grace pulled her hand away as if she had been burned. The cold ache rushed back into my body, leaving me feeling hollow and desperate.
"Get dressed," Evans said, tossing a plastic bag onto the bed. "These are the clothes you came in with. The social worker is waiting in the lobby. She has a list of shelters."
"Wait," I said, panic rising. "I don't know who I am. I have no money. And I have... this problem."
Evans paused at the door. She looked back over her shoulder.
"The side effects will manage themselves, provided you find the right... assistance," she said enigmatically. "As for money, you look like an able-bodied man. I'm sure you can find work. The hospital is always looking for contractors to fix the old heating pipes in the basement. Maybe you should start there."
She didn't wait for an answer. She swept out of the room, the master of her domain.
Grace lingered for a second longer. She looked at me, then at the tent in my sheets, then back to my eyes. She looked like she wanted to say something—maybe an apology, maybe an explanation.
"Good luck," she whispered, and ran after her mother.
I was alone again.
I opened the plastic bag. Inside were a pair of torn jeans, a dirty t-shirt, and a pair of heavy work boots. No wallet. No ID. No phone.
I dressed slowly, every movement chafing against my sensitive condition.
I was a ghost with a hard-on, cast out into a world I didn't remember.
I walked out of the room, ignoring the pitying look from the soap-opera lady. I made my way to the lobby, signed the papers the bored social worker shoved at me, and stepped out the front doors.
The city was loud. Cars honked, people shouted, sirens wailed. It was a sensory overload.
I stood on the sidewalk, clutching my stomach. I was hungry. I was in pain. And I was completely broke.
Contractors to fix the old heating pipes...
Doctor Evans' words echoed in my head. Was it a suggestion? Or a command?
I looked back at the massive glass building of the hospital. I had nowhere else to go.
I walked around the perimeter, looking for a service entrance. I found a loading dock where a burly man in a jumpsuit was yelling at a vending machine.
"Piece of junk!" the man shouted, kicking the machine. "Took my damn dollar!"
I stopped. My eyes locked onto the machine.
Suddenly, the world shifted.
I didn't see a metal box. I saw a schematic. Blueprints overlaid my vision, glowing in the air. I could see the coin mechanism, the jammed spring, the misaligned gear. It was like I had X-ray vision, but for machinery.
Gear B is stuck due to a 15-degree tilt in the latch, my mind supplied the information instantly.
I didn't think. I just moved.
I walked up to the machine. The man looked at me, annoyed. "Beat it, kid. It's broken."
"It's not broken," I said, my voice surprising me with its confidence. "It's just jammed."
I reached out. I didn't need tools. I smacked the side of the machine—not a random hit, but a precise, calculated strike at a specific coordinate.
Clank. Whirrr.
The machine hummed to life. The coil spun. A bag of chips and the man's dollar fell into the tray.
The man stared at the chips, then at me.
"How the hell did you do that?"
I looked at my hands. They were dirty, calloused, and shaking slightly.
"I fix things," I said.
The man chewed on his lip. "You lookin' for work? The basement boiler is acting up, and the union guy is sick. Pay is cash."
I smiled. It was the first time I had smiled since I woke up.
"Lead the way."