The sleepwalking started after the accident.
The pedestrian signal had turned and I'd just stepped into the crosswalk when a woman apparently suffered a seizure and lost control of her car. I remember a scream and then waking up in a hospital a few hours later with a concussion, a broken wrist, and a few bulging discs in my spine to show for it. Prognosis was good, though, and given enough time, I'd heal.
In the mean time, I was referred to specialists for my spine, signed up for physical therapy, and prescribed medication to help manage the pain. "Managing the pain" left me in one of two states: restless, twitchy, and irritable or groggy, dim, and irritable. Either way, I was a grumpy, hunched over old man who was good for little more than shuffling around the house and complaining about my back, all before the age of 30.
Given a choice, I often opted for the groggy pills. At least with them, I would doze off and my girlfriend would have a few hours of sweet relief from dealing with me. She was the perfect nurse and never complained or got frustrated, but I knew this wasn't exactly going to be remembered as the highlight of our relationship. I wanted her to have some downtime to herself.
It was a nice idea, in theory.
The first time she opened the bathroom door and found me standing on the other side, naked and slack jawed, she screamed. She says I looked down at her, blinked once, slowly, and said, "Gotta finish what was started." She asked what I meant, but I continued on down the hall without answering and walked, repeatedly, into the front door. It took her a few confused, frightened moments before she realized I was still asleep. She managed to get me back to bed and sat up for the rest of the night to keep an eye on me.
I remembered nothing in the morning.
The next night, she was woken by a loud thud and found me face down on the floor, snoring, one foot tangled in the sheets. Apparently, I'd started to sleepwalk again, but had become snagged and tripped, quickly ending my midnight jaunt. She'd became worried that I'd end up hurting myself more seriously, so we returned to the doctor and were told sleepwalking was a side effect of my pain killer. He gave me something a little less strong and sent us on our way.
I tried to avoid taking anything at all after the visit, but it wasn't long before pain was ripping its way down my back and I was stuck, immobile and miserable, on our couch.
"Just take the new stuff." Evelyn insisted, offering me a little yellow pill, "You can't stay like this."
The fiery spasm that rippled along my spine made me comply.
I almost made it out to the street before she found me. She'd gone into the kitchen to make tea and read while I rested and, when she went back to check on me, the couch was empty and the front door was open. She chased me down, which wasn't hard because I was shambling slowly across the yard, and grabbed my arm.
"Gotta finish," I was muttering, "gotta finish."
She coaxed me back into my bed and, this time, she locked the bedroom door. She tried to watch over me all night, but sleep has a way of sneaking up on people. When she woke up some hours later, I was standing over her, a staring, silent shadow outlined against the window. She whispered my name and I shook my head and crawled back into bed. She lay awake, plagued by worry and, much to my shame when I heard about it the next day, fear.
Upset and unsure of what to do, we called the doctor's office back for advice. We were told that they could try a different medication, but that the doctor would need to prescribe it and he was out until the following day. We agreed that I would take the non-drowsy stuff until my appointment. I hated how it made me feel, anxious and itchy underneath my skin, but at least it would dull the pain without putting me to sleep.
I stayed up after Evelyn had gone to bed. I felt edgy and knew I'd just toss and turn beside her, keeping both of us up. She kissed me, told me to just yell if I needed anything, and went into our room. I stayed up watching reruns of old shows on TV until they turned into late night infomercials. It was just after two in the morning when I looked at the clock; I wasn't even tired, I'd just stay up for one more Slap Chop ad.
I woke up on my couch the next morning, wracked with full body pain the likes of which I'd never known. My feet stung, my back screamed, my neck burned. I could barely bring myself to move.
Although unclear, snippets from a barely remembered dream floated through my throbbing head; the feeling of gravel beneath my bare feet, a brightly illuminated sign on the front of a looming building, long, almost empty halls, dark rooms. A woman lying in a bed. Steady beeping. A pillow in my hands. The high pitched keen of a flatline. And all the while, filling my skull, consuming my thoughts, driving a body that was both mine and not at the same time, a childish, singsong voice.
Gotta finish what was started! Gotta finish what was started! Gotta finish what we started!
I pressed a hand over my eyes as if it would help suppress the too-noisy memory and dragged myself upright. I recognized the woman in my dream, I realized muddily, I'd seen her at the hospital after my accident, in the room beside mine. The woman who hit me.
At the same time I made the connection, my gaze dropped to the floor and a glint of something against the wood grain caught my eye. I frowned and, as much as my battered body would allow, I leaned forward. It was a small, red dot. And then another and another, a trail of them, going all the way back to the door. My heart pounded against my ribs, its beat thudding in my ears. Slowly, painfully, I picked one of my feet up. Its bottom was scraped and bloody and raw. With a short cry, I let it drop back to the floor and sank back into the couch.
Flashbacks of what I thought had been a dream replayed in my mind. The gravel against my feet, the long walk, a woman. I clutched my head and groaned. It wasn't real, it couldn't have been real. I was asleep! It wasn't me!
A pillow was wedged uncomfortably behind me and, absently, I reached behind me and pulled it out. I laid it across my lap and stared vacantly down at it, at first unaware of the embroidery in its lower corner. When I noticed it, I traced my fingers slowly over the letters. I had to read them a few times before I could comprehend what they said and, when I did, I began to sob.
I let the pillow slide to the floor, but it landed with the words facing upright and I couldn't stop reading them over and over again through tear filled eyes.
Holy Trinity Medical Center
