[Cordelia]
Pulling open the wall carefully, I peek inside.
Sensing my motion, overhead lights flicker to life, revealing a staircase leading down. Maybe his bathroom is downstairs?
Making my way down carefully, I do not pay attention to the sound of the door sliding closed behind me, nor the tell-tell sound of the lock latching nor did I notice the jars lining the walls on shelves until the tangy smell of antiseptic mixed with formaldehyde hits my nose.
Thankfully I also see a large, covered garbage can. Spilling the contents of my stomach into the receptacle, I feel better, but also worse at the same time.
Where the heck am I?
This is not the bathroom.
I am standing next to a cold, metal table. It is covered with the paper that doctors use in examination rooms but lacks any of the basic comforts one usually finds when in such places. Leather straps are hanging from the sides of the bed, to hold a patient in place, and troughs lining each end for drainage. It looks like
