The Blue

2. Coma

To be unconscious is to sink into black waters, and so I am the deep sea. Sounds are drowned around me. Feels I’ve been here forever, encased in lukewarm nothing.

Then, after I’ve floated in forever for however long, something begins to develop. Pain. Starts as a dull ache from the center of my being, from the marrow in my bones.

It gets worse.

Pain starts dragging me up out of the deep. Light of consciousness is above, out of reach, but I can see it shimmering, muted, trapped in the thick liquid like it’s something and not formless. The light brings pain.

At least it feels real, and so I know I'm alive and that is some relief. The pain gets sharp, grows barbs, bites in. The light is getting brighter. Colors appear; clouds of green and purple, yellow and red.

Sounds hum through the deeps. Murmurs come unintelligible.

The sounds grows more piercing. The treble tones become clear; the garbled bass takes on definition. I can sense motion: the hustle of bodies, the racket of equipment rattling by on metal carts.

I crack open an eyelid. The light is blinding; everything is blurred. I’m in a bed, in a hallway. It's a hospital. A small body lies next to me, covered in blood. Teenager, maybe younger, staring at the ceiling. Eyes open, unblinking.

To close my eyes, I need only stop the monumental effort required to hold them open. I do, and the heavy lids collapse. Don’t want to see this, don’t want to be here.

Would rather be in the deep sea of unconsciousness again. Would rather be unmade. Close my eyes. Swim down, swim down, swim down. I focus on the murky, exhausted feeling within me and in moments I am adrift again, comfortable. The water is warm and I am not ready to come out yet.

Then someone starts screaming; I heave my eyelids open. I’m surrounded by people. Are they here for me? I’m dying, aren’t I? No, wait. Their backs are turned. They’re watching the body next to me, and crying. Wailing.

Only one figure leans over me. Everything is blurred; the light is blinding. I stare at the face who stares back; he looks enraged, contorted with fury. Who is this man? Why is he angry with me?

Close my eyes. Don’t want to be here. Swim down.

I’m washed onto the rocky shore of consciousness, and the seashells bring pain. A constant ache that emanates from the center of my body and the more awake I become, the worse it hurts.

Wish I could keep sleeping. I try to drag myself back down to the depths, but fail. I’m awake and there’s nothing for it.

It’s not as loud as before; this must be a private room. I watch through the barest slit in my eye as a nurse slides a chart back into the rack on the hospital bed. My mouth tastes like salt and metal; blood or seawater. I swallow back the last of the sleep.

My arms are full of needles; tubes and wires are a net across me. I cough and my ribs creak; feels like they’re snapping apart.

The nurse turns to stare then hurries from the room, calling a name. Minutes later, a doctor enters. He’s a balding man with a white lab coat and a haggard expression on his face, a day’s stubble.

“Mr. Weaver?” the doctor asks.

I groan in response.

“Good news: you’re alive.”

Thanks.

“The bad news is, you’ve suffered a major concussion. You were in a coma all night. I don’t want you to try and move yet, just gather your strength. Someone must have been watching out for you—you’re lucky to be here.”