Everything was white. The plastered walls, the cork ceiling tiles, and the cotton bed sheets. Plain; the room was, and painfully bright as the sun rays shined through the curtain-less window on the right.

A repetitive beep was heard at every second. The door was shut, but the sound of shuffling feet, clicking high heels, telephone rings, and hushed murmurs in the hallways outside the room were still heard.

It was all too familiar, Dallas Winston thought to himself, as he lied in the white, cotton sheet bed, with a tube stuck on his arm. The last thing he remembered was running from the police, then the excruciating, burning sensation of the metal bullets burrowing into his skin, and the disgusting feel of hot blood oozing out. Though it was physically painful, it was emotionally freeing. Dallas found his life pointless without Johnny as his faithful shadow. So he took the initiative to end it himself.

Bewildered, he was, to find himself alive and breathing. The chances of surviving being shot seven times was unlikely. You could call it a miracle, but to Dallas, it was like waking up in hell, again.

The handle to the mahogany door twisted, and in came a man in a long white coat. Circular glasses sat upon the crook of his nose, and bent around his abnormally large ears. In one hand he held a clipboard, and in the other a pencil, in which he scrawled a few notes while observing Dallas.

He then messed with a few buttons on a machine by the bedside. "How are you feeling?" His monotone voice filled the emptiness in the room.

Dallas gazed his eyes down to his own body. He was wearing a pale, teal colored hospital gown, that had a few splotches of dried up blood along his abdomen and chest. Both of his arms had bandage wrapped around them, and as he shifted himself, he felt a tightly wrapped bandage covering his entire torso as well.

"I'm suppose to be dead." Dallas spoke flatly. His voice was deep, and heavily coated in a New York accent.

The man sighed, "Well, congratulations, you didn't die. But you've got some serious injuries kid." His voice had not a hint of sympathy. "You were shot seven times. Two in your left arm, one in your right, and four around your torso. You're damn lucky, cause all the bullets somehow missed your vital organs." He placed the pencil behind his ear. "What were you doing, running from the police anyway?"

"None of your fucking business." Dallas snarled. He was in no mood to be lectured by someone, especially a doctor.

The doctor sat his clipboard down on the bedside table, as he leaned close to Dallas's face. "I know who you are" he spoke through clenched teeth, "You no good hoodlum scum." His face got heated. Turning into a scarlet red hue. "You think you can just do whatever you please don't you?"

Dallas gave him an arrogant smirk. He couldn't care less what this man thought. Being hated wasn't new to him.

And being the delinquent he was, he gathered saliva within his throat, then vigorously spitted onto the doctors face.

"Son of a bitch!!" The doctor yelped in disgust as he quickly lurched away. He raised his hand, took off his glasses, and immediately wiped away the slime of spit splattered across his face.
"You're a disgrace." He spat.

Dallas rolled his eyes in irritation. "Tell someone who cares."

Vain's bulged and pulsed from the doctors large forehead. His eyes were widened, and his brows arched inward in an angry fashion.
"I hope you rot in jail." And with that, he stormed out.

Relieved that he was finally to himself, Dallas kicked off the hospital sheets. He began to sit up, but he was met with a sharp affliction in his torso. "Fuck." He cursed under his breath, and flopped back down onto the bed.

Great. Dallas thought. Getting out of this menacing place was going to be more complex than he intended.

Taking a chance, he rolled over onto his stomach. As he did so, he became tangled with the tube in his arm. Looking up, he noticed tube seemed to be connected to a bag that hung on a pole. The bag was filled with a thick, dark red substance, that Dallas assumed to be blood; It was most likely giving it to him, as for being shot seven times came with a great deal of blood loss.

Dallas reached his hand across himself and ripped the tube from his arm, then continued his escape. He put one leg over the edge of the bed, then the other. Slowly, he slid himself off the bed, until his feet touched the cold, tiled flooring. Wincing from the pain in his torso, he shifted his weight to his feet, then pulled himself off the bed, into a standing position.

As soon as he stood up, he saw the room begin to tilt, as he felt light headed. Then suddenly, from the corners of his eyes, blackness seeped into the room, and before he could do anything else, he collapsed, his head hitting the cold white floor.

The plain white room became engulfed in black, as he sank into unconsciousness.