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The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room stabbed at my eyes, a stark contrast to the blissful oblivion I'd just emerged from. My head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that resonated with the throbbing in my bruised knuckles. Bruised knuckles? I looked down at my hands, the skin around my joints a mottled purple and green. The memory of how they'd gotten this way remained stubbornly elusive, a frustrating gap in my consciousness. A sterile white sheet covered me, its crispness a cruel mockery of the chaos I felt swirling inside. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else, something metallic and vaguely sickening that clung to the back of my throat. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at the edges of my awareness. Where was I? What had happened? The last thing I remembered was...nothing. A blank space, a void where memories should have been. It was terrifying, this absence, this gaping hole in my existence. The fear clawed its way up my throat, constricting my breathing, making it hard to swallow. I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea washed over me, forcing me back down onto the pillows.'