A World No Longer Heliocentric

6: Bella

A thousand needles pierced my brain and a ringing started to escalate in my ears. I dug my nails, which I always grow out for these moments, into the leather arms of the hospital chair. You would've thought the coldness to slow down my thoughts, but the needles piercing my head stabbed at them, initiating chaos in my head.

The week flew by because I slept most of it with the IL2 dose I had. Then Saturday came. Today. Now. With a cold cap on my head like a helmet, like I'm about to go on a freaking bike ride that ends with me crashing into a tree. Only this helmet causes more pain, not protects me. My mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood as I bit my lip so hard, I tear the skin apart. I distract myself by creating a story in my head, which I always did when I endured this much pain.

She's about my age. With dark silky hair and olive skin. Her eyes, despite her dark skin, are blue and green, like the water-filled with phytoplankton bloom of the Gulf of California. I loved it there. She had to decide if she would swim. Her family waited for her on an island in the middle of the Gulf of California. The sun glistened against the water, making it seem so welcoming and warm. But she knew of its cold contents, what she would face if she swam. She knew the chance of survival in these waters was less than 1%. She had calculated it in her head, taking off a percent for every risk, or composed certain risks as more than 1%. In total, she ended up with 99% percent. That 99% percent meant so many ways she could die, or drown, or even give up. Yes, she did anticipate her own failure.

She didn't want to but what else could she do? Is it possible to cut your own lifeline? Yes. She knew all of the risks but she needed to get to her family. She couldn't remember anything, her name, her identity. She doesn't even know what she looks like, just that she woke up in this almost white sand with the single pulsing desire to get to this island, which she knew clearly despite not knowing her own name. There was her family. That she knew. Not herself, but her family. They could give her all the answers.

She knew all about the world. She knew algebra and the proxy wars between the U.S. and Russia and the Great Gatsby. Her head filled to the brim with all this knowledge and no containment, no source. Like right now, she knew that since it was about a little afternoon because of the sun's position in the sky, it was high tide. But she didn't know what this meant, whether swimming would be more or less difficult. Her family's faces filled her as she digs her heels in the sand, forcing herself towards the water's edge. Stretching her arms out in front of her, with her back gracefully arched, as if she knew how to do this, she plunged into the ice-cold water. She figured that she swam before because swimming came easy to her, gliding through the water like a dolphin, barely kicking her feet and being pushed through. The sensation of the water on her skin flooded her head, but its coldness interrupted the sensation, forcing her to reach the surface for warm air. She knew it would be many hours until she reached the island if she reached it. After a couple of gulps of air, she plunged back into the water, holding her breath.

After an hour, she needed to rest so she turned on her back. The sun warmed her eyelids and cheeks, making her shudder in comfort. The sun was hitting her from a different angle so she knew that she was too far north and she would have to swim south for about thirty minutes at the pace she'd been going. So she started to swim again for another two hours, every body-part aching so much that she had to pace herself down to slow strokes in the water. Her throat felt so dry, like every time she swallowed, it felt raw. This was one thing she didn't anticipate.

She anticipated sharks, heat exhaustion, drowning, even giving up. But she did not anticipate thirst or hunger. How had she not thought of that? She wanted out of the water. Now. She opens her mouth for a second and water floods in her mouth, sending her in a coughing fit, her throat burning. The cold water is like a thousand needles piercing her skin, as she forces herself to keep her arms moving. Each stroke feels like a knife drove straight through her hand and through her arms. Still coughing on the water, she keeps going, her head starting to feel fuzzy.

A voice calls out to her--

"Bella!" Dad yells. "Bella! Are you okay?" I clutch my stomach as I bend over, coughing, my throat feeling raw. A sob escapes my throat as the pain radiates through my body, like a wave. He's still calling my name but I sob even harder, drowning out his voice. Shaking involuntarily, I clutch my arms together, the coldness so cold that it becomes hot, like when you get too close to a fire.

"Bella, you're done," the nurse says, holding onto my shoulders. "You're done. It's been an hour." I shudder as she takes off the cap, warmth flooding my body. Dad takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, pulling me up out of the chair.

"You're not doing it anymore," he says sharply. "It's too risky." I look up at him and scowl.

"That's not your choice, Dad," I croak.

"Yes, it is," he growls. "You're my daughter. It's not just your life you're risking. It's mine, too. Don't forget that."
"So you want me to worry about you too?"

"That's not what I'm saying, Bells-"

"Yes, it is!" I yelled, backing away from him. "I have to deal with your shit too?"

"Watch it," he says calmly but his voice was shaking like he's trying to contain himself. "I don't want to lose you because you want to keep your hair. That's not fair to me. I don't want to pay for you to kill yourself." I run my fingers through my hair. How could he say that? My hair's perfect silkiness and even thickness travels through my fingers as I search for the reason. I needed to give him one, or else he wouldn't let me continue the therapy. It was his choice, legally and financially, so I needed to be convincing.

"I'll give you a day," he says, opening the car door.

"What?"

"A day," he repeats, sighing. "To think about your reason for doing this. And it better be good because I'm not kidding. It's my life you're risking here too. I watched you slowly kill yourself like this before. Remember what happened last time? You coded because of the combined stress on your body with the cold therapy and IL2." I remember it like it was yesterday.

The car ride home was silent and I spend it thinking about my story. I couldn't get it out of my head. I see the girl so clearly, long black silky hair and gorgeous eyes. They creased in the corners, making her look almost like a doll, perfect. But I could feel everything she was feeling. I felt the icy water on my skin and the heated white blanket of sand, the long shoreline that spread for miles until it was a dot in both directions that glittered in the sunlight.

I remember going to the Gulf of California when I was little. It was one of those snapshot moments where I take a mental picture. I play it over like a tape recorder in my mind, the white sand, the sunlight glittering over everything that felt its presence, the icy cold water that warmed me but not like the sun. Over and over until we get home.

I feel my dad stiffen when he sees the white jeep sitting in the driveway. I suddenly remembered what I had today, shrugging Dad's jacket off my shoulders and running inside, hoping he doesn't see me. But just as I'm opening the door, I hear a car door open. I know it's not Dad's truck because his sounds like a groaning sound. No. This one sounded smooth and satisfying to my ears like he just bought the damn thing.

"Did I get the right time?" he grins, walking towards me with his backpack hanging off one shoulder. His outfit consists of a sweater and jeans, his hair looking wet like he just showered, and a cologne wafting from here. I look down at my own outfit. Old Levi's and one of my dad's 80s band t-shirts, which goes down halfway to my knees. I couldn't even imagine my face right now, blotchy around my eyes from crying, but pasty from the cold cap. The one thing though, that I'm truly grateful for at this moment, is my hair, which flows down my back in perfect motion.

"Yeah," I laugh nervously. "I had to run an errand with my dad. I'm sorry." He knows it's more than that, with his brief expression of concern upon seeing me, but doesn't question it further.

"No, yeah," he stutters. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Let's get this over with.