I find myself slowly breaking the barrier of consciousness and entering reality—a reality that was previously nonexistent. A reality where I think maybe I don't belong.
I don't exist here. Maybe I'm dead. In death, do our senses work? Can you hear things, smell things? I can. I hear noises, beeps, and low, hushed whispers. I realize things slowly. I fight it though. It is so comfortable to be unconscious and unaware. Something inside me tells me I am better off asleep. I don't want to be aware ... of anything. I don't want to know where I am or why. I am scared—no, terrified. I try to grasp something, anything in my mind to garnera little bit of comfort, but nothing is there. I feel empty and alone. The adrenaline has begun a slow, sludgy course plodding through my veins, threatening to take control and throw me into a state of panic. I slow its progress by redirecting my thoughts to what I know, what I can discernfrom this reality, my new state of being. Maybe this has always been my state of being. Surely not, but I can't know for sure. I search my mind for clues, some memory as to where I am andwhy. Something has happened to me; I just cannot remember what it is, what it could be, who I am.
My mind is swimming in its black, infinite emptiness. I begin to put things into the blank space—things like the beeps, the whispers, the feel of the stiff cotton sheets covering the rigid mattress I am lying on, the smell of industrial cleaners and mildew that surrounds me. I am afraid to open my eyes. I am afraid that if I do, there will be no difference between the blackness of the backs of my eyelids and the blackness of my new world. I feel the adrenaline again, threatening to explode. I push it down and count my breaths. I count my heartbeats, syncing up with the corresponding beeps that now fill my head. They are so loud. They seem to take up the whole room. That, and the smell of bleach.
I begin to open my eyes. It takes all the effort I can muster to force them only a tiny bit open, and even still, only one is cooperating. To my surprise (and relief), the blackness turns to white. Not bright white, just a regular white, maybe even a dingy white. As I take in the sheet covering my body, I open the cooperating eyelid a bit more, and the other one begins to lift as well. I can see the beeps now, on the machine just to the left of where I lie. I see the clear plastic tubes leading to clear plastic bags hanging on metal hooks right next to the beeping machine. I follow a tube with my eyes down to my hand, which I slowly lift, and I see where the tube connects to my hand under a piece of opaque white tape. My hand begins to ache where the tube is, or maybe it was aching all along, and I just now noticed it. Somehow, this tiny ache sends the panic-laced adrenaline moving at a faster pace through my veins. But my mind, however empty it may be, refuses to let the panic enter, and I am able to hold back from screaming in terror. I am teetering on the edge of terror now, and I will it back down into a tiny little empty corner of my mind. There is no place for fear in here right now. I need logic to maintain control—although logic wishes desperately to abandon me as it trembles next to terror in the corner.
My mouth is dry and crusted over where my lips meet. My tongue can barely move and tastes like death. My throat hurts terribly, and I feel the need to swallow, but I cannot bringmyself to do it. It's far too much effort, and I fear the pain it will bring. Despite my best efforts, I am waking up. I slowly move my fingers just so that I know I can. My toes are more of a challenge, but I eventually find them, take inventory of them, move them. The panic slowly starts to recede, allowing me to see through it, around it as I push it behind me and try to distract myself by focusing on the noises in the room. The whispers are moving closer, and I shrink back into the bed as if I could disappear into the sheets. A woman opens the door and walks into the room. She is looking behind her and doesn't see me yet. She is hauntingly familiar, like maybe I knew her in a past life, or in a dream. She turns and looks at me. A hesitant smile plays on her face, and she turns her head and quietly says, "She's awake" to the other whispers in the hall.
YOU ARE READING
Bliss Creek
Teen FictionIn an unstable world full of uncertainty, Iz wakes up as a blank slate. She has no memory of who she is. She is free to reinvent herself, to write her story starting at age 17. But the nagging feeling that something isn't right keeps her from pursui...
