(This is based on an essay I wrote, so it's part-fact)
The cold air registers, and her eyes snap open. She's not greeted by a familiar face, or the soft aura of light peeking through her bedroom window. Instead, artificial tungsten invades her vision, along with various monitors and lights from machines.
She attempts to speak, but can't. Her words are parried by three hollow plastic cylinders. Vexed by them, she raises her left hand. Three intra-venous lines penetrating the soft skin, how lovely.