October 20th 2015
Light. White Light. Blinding white light. I'm swimming in blinding white light. It's burning my eyes every time I open them. It's strange I can't focus on anything, I just see white. There is nothing left just this brightness and every time I make the treacherous journey to open my eye lids I'm consumed by it.
But that's not the only thing that's scary. Everything hurts. Every action I make is labored. I can't move my body- it's sore, cemented down by an elephant or two sitting upon my chest. Nothing is working like they should. It's not like I can't feel each limb, hell- I can feel them alright, every inch of me is in pain. But they are just not working with my brains command. At least not up to the speed I'm used too.
I finally feel the need to attempt to open my eyes again. Once I peel my eyelids apart I strain to keep them open for longer this time. After a few moments, that feel like an eternity, I finally see outlines merge around the white. Blurry edges that frame the white. Then slowly contrasts in the white are seen- some areas a brighter shade of white then others. Then finally I see elements of grey and I feel the sudden rush of relief.
Minutes later everything else finally comes to a focus. I'm in a room, a white room. Where the ceiling is fitted with bright white light spotlights. Each wall is covered in white, there's a brown door on my right side and a window to my left. Where there's is a clear view of a parking lot. In the corner next to the window there's two chairs. Then next to me there's another chair. I, myself, am laying on a bed. The grey that I saw was the grey of metal. Metal used in the machines ceremoniously connected to me. Then realization hits, I'm in a hospital.
Today's the day. Noah is being taken off of his anaesthetics. He is going to come back to consciousness from his medically induced coma. This is my chance to apologise and explain; to show him I'm here for him.
For the best part of last week he has been induced, the entire time I've been out of my mind. So many people never wake up from comas, what if Noah doesn't? The doctors have repeatedly assured me that one of the main differences of medically induced coma from a natural one: Is that they can control it. they can pull him out of it at any time. But they won't until the swelling and internal skull bruises come down. They say the best way for him to recover is if he doesn't have to deal with external factors or distractions prohibiting him from making a full recovery. Basically, anything that could put extra stress on his body or mind. so seeing me last week probably wouldn't have helped.
I have one last stop left before I'm off on my way to see Noah in the hospital. "Mr. Evans, you've finish marking Noah's stuff yet?" I ask as I pop my head into his recently disserted class room.
"Yes, I have Mr. Silva, and for your information it is not 'stuff'. It was an excellent extra credit piece Noah wrote that just locked 25 % of his final grade at an 'A'. If anything you should take inspiration from a piece like this, if you wrote something even half as good you wouldn't have to worry about your Basketball team place at all." He replies, frowning at my clear disinterest in his subject. Though it wasn't from a lack of interest I hated English, but more from a lack of understanding. How could a few words hold so many different interpretations? How can a play about teenagers committing suicide be considered a honourable tragedy? How could people find unrealistic stories, about kids killing each other for rich people's amusement, entertaining? But instead of voicing my opinions I just replied respectfully. "Yes sir, I understand Noah is excellent at English. He was tutoring me before his ....accident. Anyway, I may take a look at this piece before I return it to him today. Just to see what the standard I'm aiming for is" Mr. Evans nods in approval, then hands me a collection of assignments Noah has missed and previous completed work that has been marked.
"You definitely should. It's the poem on top. Please send Noah my well wishes, I hope he completely recovers soon"
I exit his classroom and head for my mustang. I sit down in the car, and feel the leather interior. I inhale the musky smell, a calm for me. I make the now routine route to the hospital. I park the car in a spot directly opposite from the entrance. I just sit there and stare at it. This is it, I'm going to see Noah. I collect all of his books and papers from his teachers. This is my plan: I'll go in there and pretend I'm just there to drop this off. Then get a moment to apologise and explain him everything. He's in a hospital bed- he won't be able to get away from me.
I look down at the bundle in my hands. The assignment Mr. Evans wanted me to read was at the top. There was a bright red 'A+' in the corner. I took the sheet out of the pile and stared at the few lines of written word. These few lines were worth an 'A'? Well, I guess I could take a look...
By Noah Hunt
It was like a breathe of fresh air
A momentary lapse of time
And judgement; a well deserved recess,
In that moment I felt sensations,
Senses so surreal it's indescribable,
Calamities of past and present mulled to make that second.
A second where the world stood still.
It was just I, I and another
And for that moment it was enough
But like all good things
Time took over, rippling it's fabrics
With ripples comes destruction
And with destruction: it crumbled
Within one moment it was over.
Now I stand back,
I reflect on that moment.
A moment I wouldn't change
Yes it maybe short, but it was mine
And for that moment- mine- was simply perfect.
YOU ARE READING
Breathe A Little (boyxboy)Teen Fiction
Meet Noah Hunt. He's the definition of a "good boy": perfect grades, all the right extra-curricular, doesn't drink, party or get into any trouble whatsoever. Why? Because he is on a mission: to get a scholarship and get as far as he can from his dea...