Steeling herself, she shifted her elbows backwards for a second time and raised her torso. She almost passed out from the jagged shards of pain ripping through her abdomen but eventually manoeuvred herself to a sitting position. Spots of blood appeared on the front of the hospital gown where it touched against the rushed stitches. Using one arm to support her upright posture, Antimone used the other to slide her left leg until it was dangling over the edge. She paused for breath, allowing the agony to subside before repeating the process with the right leg. With excruciating slowness, she shuffled her body forwards. It was over a metre to the floor, far higher than she would have attempted under normal circumstances.
“Here goes,” she muttered as she edged her bottom over the rim of the operating table. Her toes touched the ground, but as she passed the point of no return she couldn’t stop her momentum and pitched forward. She tried to break her fall but still smacked her head on the white, plastic-coated floor.
For several minutes, she lay motionless, dazed by the blow. Finally, she moved her right hand and probed her forehead which had borne the brunt of the impact.
“Christ, that hurts,” she whispered.
Using her arms, she dragged herself across the floor, centimetre by centimetre, with frequent pauses for rest, until she found herself up against the door. A thin smear of blood trailed behind her. She attempted to push the door open with one arm but couldn’t budge the heavy mechanism. She had no more luck when she used both hands. Rather than achieving the desired effect, she found herself pushing her own body backwards. In frustration, she rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. Within seconds, exhaustion overcame her, and she was asleep.
A sudden bumping against her head awakened her. Her brain struggled to make sense of her surroundings before she recalled where she was. Somebody was entering the operating theatre.
“Hang on,” she croaked, “I’m trying to get out of the way.”
The door stopped moving, and the sound of low voices filtered through. She shuffled her body out of its arc.
“Okay, you can open it now,” she called.
The door opened a few centimetres, and a head peered tentatively through the gap.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked. His eyes tracked the smeared blood trailing from the operating table to where Antimone lay. “My God, you just had a baby, and you’re alive? Nick, get in here and call Mrs Baxter. This one’s alive.”
A second man entered the room, pushing a trolley. “Yeah, right. Nice one.”
The smile vanished from his face when he took in the girl lying at his feet and the patchy, red streaks across the floor. While the first man tended to Antimone, the other rushed to the wall-mounted terminal and swept his hand from right to left in front of it.
“Call Mrs Baxter,” he said in a trembling voice.
After a few seconds, the irritated expression of a man in his mid-twenties with jet-black hair, and a narrow face filled the screen.
“I’m Nick Jenkins from the mortuary. I need to speak to Mrs Baxter urgently.”
“Mrs Baxter is busy. What’s it about? If it’s something to do with overtime or working conditions, take it up with Personnel.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Could you please inform her that the woman who just gave birth in operating theatre three is still alive?”
“Alive? Are you sure? If this is some sort of practical joke there will be serious consequences.”
“I’m telling the truth. She’s talking to my colleague right now. We came in to pick up the body and found her on the floor.”
“Wait right there. For Christ’s sake don’t touch anything … In fact, don’t move at all.”
The display went blank.
The Colour of the Soul Page 28
