The Pain Colony

by Shanon Hunt

  She whisks out of the room.

  “Where am I?” I whisper.

  “You’re in a hospital bed in a hospital room in a wonderful place called the Colony. Do you remember arriving at the Colony?”

  I think hard. Really hard. “No.”

  The small nurse bustles back into the room and thrusts a cup of water with a bendy straw in front of me. I take a drink. God, it’s the best-tasting water I’ve ever had.

  “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, but we’re going to take care of you, okay?”

  “Okay.” I try to remember what happened. Was I in an accident or something?

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  My name? My name. I feel like it’s right on the tip of my tongue, like a dream after I wake up in the morning. But it’s just not there. I close my eyes again, concentrating hard. I try to envision it written on a piece of paper. I start to panic, and I open my eyes.

  The man seems to read the fear on my face, and he soothes me. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Give it some time. It’ll come back. Just rest.”

  But the idea that I can’t remember my name is too upsetting. Do I have amnesia? Dammit. I concentrate hard, squinting my eyes as if that will help wake up my groggy brain. I focus on an imaginary pencil and paper. I hold the pencil in my hand: straight line down, straight line over. Straight line down, straight line over.

  “It’s an L,” I announce, as if that solves the mystery.

  “Okay, that’s a start,” the man says.

  I’m annoyed that he’s talking to me as though I were a child. Straight line down, straight line over, and straight line down, straight line over.

  “Two Ls.” This small effort has exhausted me and I want to go back to sleep, but just as I start to fade, I hear loud footsteps enter the room.

  “Well, who do we have here?” a voice booms over me.

  I can barely open my eyes and they won’t focus, but I see a blurry doctor looking down at me. He shines a penlight into my eyes, and they close reflexively. He lifts my wrist to feel for my pulse.

  “Do you have a name, miss?” he asks.

  I feel stupid and embarrassed. “Yes, it’s … it’s …”

  I blink several times to clear my vision and turn to the man in the glasses, imploring him for help. His impossibly bright blue eyes meet mine, but there is sadness in them.

  He breaks from my pleading gaze to address the doctor. “Dr. Jeremy, this is Layla.”

  From the Author

  Thanks for reading The Pain Colony. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like a glimpse into Layla’s recruitment into the Colony, be sure to get the free companion short story With Pain Comes Peace, a diary written by Layla. You can download the book here. Or follow this link: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/zlg4dr1w5c

  Also, I’d be ever grateful if you would consider putting up some stars on the Amazon store page for The Pain Colony. Reviews are the life blood of new independent authors, and your review would have a huge impact on my book’s visibility to other readers.

  Finally, feel free to visit my website (shanonhuntbooks.com), where you can sign up to be notified of my next book, friend me on Facebook (Shanon Hunt Books), follow me on Instagram (shanonhuntbooks), or write to me at shanon.hunt@gmail.com. I answer every email.

  Also by Shanon Hunt

  With Pain Comes Peace

  A Companion Short Story to The Pain Colony

  My name is Layla. Or so they tell me.

  In no world could I be a Layla. Layla’s a feminine name. It’s for someone tall and graceful with flawless skin and thick silky hair. I’m five foot six with stringy hair and a round baby face. Slender but a little beefy in the thighs. Graceful? No. I walked right into a sliding glass door just this morning. I feel I’m more of a somewhat klutzy tomboy, more of a Charlie or an Alex.

  I’ve been rescued and rehabilitated by a curious place called the Colony. Rescued from what, I don’t know. Possibly a life not worth living, since I was found unconscious and bloody with a broken foot. Hiding from someone (or something) in a dirty dumpster alley in a bad part of Phoenix.

  Or so the story goes.

  The hospital they brought me to is awfully impressive. Behind impossibly clean glass doors, the rooms are ultramodern, with high-tech machines and all sorts of robotics, like something you’d see in a science fiction movie. The doctors and staff are courteous and caring. No one from the billing department has stopped by to ask how I’m going to pay for this. I’ve even had a few sessions with the resident shrink. Everyone seems to want to help.

  But I have a weird feeling about this place. Not that I can really trust my instincts at the moment. As it turns out, amnesia really hinders your sense of self-awareness. Dr. Jeannette, the shrink, has been gracious enough to explain my situation and provide some motherly reassurance.

  “You just need a little time, my dear,” she told me last week. “Retrograde amnesia after traumatic brain injury is very common and almost always very temporary. Just like your broken foot, your brain will heal and you’ll be able to tell us who you are and where you came from. Simple as that. Try not to get frustrated. When you let your mind rest, your brain will start to repair.”

  I appreciate what she’s saying, but it’s impossible not to get frustrated. You know how something gets on the tip of your tongue, and it drives you crazy? That’s everything for me. My name, my job, my friends and family. I have a general idea of the world I’ve lived in for twenty-something years, but nothing personal seems to connect. Like I know I drink coffee, but I can’t remember ever buying one. I know how to read, but I don’t remember ever reading anything.

  Anyway, as I was saying, I have a weird feeling about this place. I think it might be a religious cult. Here’s why.

  A couple of days ago, I was visited by one of the hospital staff. He’s tall with broad shoulders and intense blue eyes that make me slightly uncomfortable, even behind his thick-rimmed glasses. He came in wearing the standard white hospital scrubs.

  “How are you feeling today?” he asked me. His perfect white teeth seemed as perfect as the rest of him. Under normal circumstances, I might have found him … well, perfect.

  “Okay, Doctor,” I answered, all raspy. My vocal cords still haven’t fully recovered.

  “Well, that’s good to hear, but I’m not a doctor.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s the, uh, outfit.” I twirled a finger at him.

  “I suppose we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Brother James.”

  “And I’m ‘Layla.’” I added air quotes. The gesture was flippant, and I instantly regretted it. My situation wasn’t their fault, and they had to call me something.

  I cleared my scratchy throat and changed the subject. “Are you a priest?”

  He didn’t answer me at first, just loomed over me, grinning. I pulled my blanket up to my chest.

  “No, no, not a priest.” He fell into the chair next to my bed. “We’re a community of open-minded people who are working to make the world a better place. Those who’ve demonstrated commitment to our cause earn the distinguished title of Brother or Sister. It creates a culture of unity, like a big, happy family.”

  I couldn’t tell if his tone was serious or sarcastic, but it was definitely unnerving.

  He glanced back toward the door and said in a low voice, “Between you and me, I always found it to be a little corny. But I’ve been here a long time, and I suppose it’s grown on me. We do extremely meaningful work here, and that’s what’s most important to me.”

  “What meaningful work do you do?”

  “Experiments.”

  “Experimenting with what?” Drugs, no doubt. Hallucinogens, probably. LSD, mushrooms, PCP. Whatever opened the mind to enlightenment.

  “Ways to achieve purity and perfection.”

  My scalp prickled. Those words were chilling for some reason. I nodded and gripped my blanket a little tighter. It’s not that I have something against cults. To be honest, I have no
experience with them, at least none I can remember. But the word makes me think of brainwashing and sex slaves. Or a bunch of hippies holding hands singing “Kumbaya.”

  He seemed to get the hint. “Well, I better get back to work.”

  He smiled politely and left, and he hasn’t been back since then. I wonder if I hurt his feelings. I feel a little ashamed, if I did. After all, these people graciously picked me up, brought me to their hospital, and nursed me back to health. They don’t deserve to be insulted. As a guest in their house, I should be respectful. And until my memories return, I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  Maybe I should start practicing.

  Kumbaya, my lord, kumbaya.

  Kumbaya, my lord, kumbaya.

  Kumbaya, my lord, kumbaya.

  Oh lord, kumbaya.

  Read more of Layla’s introduction into the Colony!

  Download the book here!

  https://dl.bookfunnel.com/zlg4dr1w5c

  Acknowledgement

  Thank you with all my heart to my husband, Steve Ritland, for the countless hours of scientific advice and endless encouragement. Thanks to my scientist friends and alpha readers, Anne Clewell, Adrienne Farid, Laomi Harewood, and Nancy Lewis for suffering through the terrible, lengthy first draft and still assuring me that I wasn’t a hack.

  And an enormous thank you to Lisa Poisso, who not only provided a masterful editorial review and line edit, but taught me the art and science of story-telling.

  About the Author

  As a former pharmaceutical executive of 15 years, Shanon Hunt has firsthand experience with cutting edge medical advances. But it wasn’t until she took an interest in CRISPR and the near future implications of genetic engineering that she became inspired to write a suspense thriller.

  When she’s not plotting her next story, she enjoys being tormented by her frisbee-obsessed Australian Shepherd, hiking the wilds of northern New Jersey, and canyoneering in southern Utah with her husband, Steve. She lives in New Jersey with Steve and their two sons, Nick and Ben.