I Was Discharged from the Hospital… But the Lotus Wouldn’t Let Me Leave

Photo by sudok1 on Deposit Photos

Today’s Creative Spark (#2) — Inspired by Greek Mythology

How long has it been now? The same stained ceiling tiles stare back, unchanged above the hospital bed where I’ve remained since the day the doctors said I was ready to be discharged — that I was all better. They smiled then, standing at the foot of the bed with clipboards in hand, voices warm and reassuring as they spoke of going home. Relief swelled in my chest, a strange joy rising at the thought of finally leaving this place. But that moment feels like a lifetime ago — perhaps even a dream. Since then, nothing has happened.

No paperwork. No discharge. Just silence.

No one visits me anymore. Not family. Not friends. Not even the doctors.

The hallway outside my door remains eerily quiet, as if the world has simply forgotten this room exists. Sometimes I try to get up, to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and feel the floor beneath me. But every time I do, my body feels heavy, as though the mattress itself is holding me in place. The IV bags never seem to empty. The heart monitor ticks away in its endless rhythm, a cold metronome counting the seconds in a place where time no longer seems to move. Nothing changes. Nothing moves.

And yet, I don’t feel sad. Not really. In fact, part of me likes it here. There’s no pain, no pressure, no hunger or want. No urgency. Just stillness. Just quiet. A soft, hazy peace wraps around me like a warm blanket, soothing every thought before it can rise too far. The world beyond these walls feels distant — like a dream I once had but can no longer remember. Maybe I’ve healed. Maybe I haven’t. But it hardly seems to matter anymore.

I glance down at my hand. A wedding ring glints in the dim light. I stare at it for a long time, turning my hand, watching how the metal catches the glow from the monitors. I press my thumb against the band, trying to stir something — some flicker of memory, a face, a name, a voice. But nothing comes. No image, no feeling. Just the faint impression that once, long ago, it must have meant something important. I think I was married. I think I loved someone.

I sink back into the bed with a sigh; the mattress swallowing me again like it always does. I try, once more, to remember — what came before all this. Who was my family? Where did I live? What did I do? But the answers slip through my fingers like smoke. The memories are there, just out of reach, dissolving the moment I try to grasp them. Faces blur. Names vanish. Entire chapters of my life crumble into dust the harder I try to hold on to them.

Those answers used to matter. I’m sure they did.

But now… now I’m not so sure they do.

My head snaps up as the heavy hospital door slides open for the first time in what feels like forever. Two nurses walk in, their smiles just a little too wide, their steps just a little too smooth. Their eyes glisten with something that might be kindness, or perhaps something else deeper, stranger, harder to name.

“Hello, Mr. Laertes,” the blonde one says softly, as she steps toward the bed and begins removing the IVs. “It’s time.”

Her hands are gentle as she lifts the last tube from my arm. The other nurse stands beside her, offering me a hand. Without thinking, I take it. My legs tremble as they help me sit up, then guide me to my feet. The floor is cold beneath my bare soles, and the world tilts as I take my first step.

They steady me with practiced ease, one on each side, their arms warm and firm. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t ask. I let them lead me toward the open door, the dim hallway stretching out like a tunnel into some soft, unknown place.

As I cross the threshold, more nurses appear — half a dozen or more, standing in the hallway like a silent procession. All of them wear the same expression: serene, radiant, and warm. But their smiles are too perfect, too fixed, stretched just a little too wide — something not quite human, not quite right, hiding just beneath the kindness.

They bow their heads as I pass, like I’m being honored… or mourned.

Behind me, the room fades into soft shadows. On the nightstand beside the bed, a small folded note rests beneath the glow of the heart monitor — something I hadn’t noticed before. Unmarked, unassuming.

Its words are etched in careful, shaking handwriting:

To those who read this — 
Beware the fruit that blooms in stillness.
It will quiet your hunger, still your suffering, and drain your name from your mind.
You will lie smiling in the dark,
while the world forgets you ever stirred.
This is not mercy.
It is erasure, sweetened by peace.

This is part of my ongoing series, Today’s Creative Spark — myth-inspired fiction written from daily inspiration. Browse the full series here.

Should this story be expanded into a full version? Would you want to see more from this world? Let me know in the comments — I’d love to hear your thoughts.