Reopening Eyes. (Sequel to in the blink of an Eye Only.)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue. The story is mine, the people aren't. I make no money out of this. My only return is in the form of feedback. See, it works, I wasn't even sure I was going to write a sequel. I should be in bed. I have to be up at 4:30 am and it's 11 pm. But you gave me feedback and made me write.
Katana. rose_tat@hotmail.com
Part One
Swirling blackness. Confusion. Fear. Unimaginable pain. And then…
Nothing.
Many people believe that comas are full of dreaming, and maybe for some people they are. But sometimes… Sometimes the mind just decides that it has simply had enough. It shuts down. Turns off. The human spirit can only be broken so many times. Many coma victims do not wake up. They were never meant to. Science has kept them alive long after they gave up on living. Sometimes nature wins. Sometimes science.
Science won with me.
In some ways I'm sad that I didn't just die. It would have been so much easier on everybody. Especially Max.
But mostly I'm extremely thankful. I look at all that I have, the people, the friends, everything. And I'm thankful that science won. I'm thankful that Max refused to give up, either on me or on my beliefs. She has done so much, sacrificed so much…
And that's when I start to feel guilty again. To wish that nature had won, and quickly. After all, I gave up. I wanted to die. I wanted an end. Peace. I didn't want to be that cripple fighting a hopeless dream anymore.
I'm not as optimistic as I pretend to be.
I hated that fucken chair. I hated the fact that I thought the chair was what stood between Max and me. It wasn't. It was just my own inferiority complex and her insecurities.
I was a fool. I had so much to live for and I couldn't even see it. That is the thing with depression. It colors everything. Covers everything. Three breakdowns and you learn to hide it pretty well.
Valerie triggered my third breakdown. After that I got good at masks.
No more Prozac for good ol' Logan Cale. He just needed a mission. Right? That's what Eyes Only was all about. Separating myself from people. Reminding my self that I'm not so badly off. I needed it. Needed to be needed. It was what got me out of bed in the morning and stopped me from slitting my wrists at night.
I was doing fine. Until she came through my skylight and made me take my feelings out of that leaden box again. But it was okay. It was okay because she was untouchable. She was even more untouchable once I landed in that chair. It was the perfect excuse not to get too close. Except that I did. Get to close that is.
I'm actually a very self-destructive person. I think I wanted those creeps to find me. Logan Cale always needs an excuse. Yes, I know that's Uncle Jonas talking. You try living with the prick for five years while your mother's dying of cancer and your father's screwing anything with legs in an attempt to forget that the only woman he ever loved is wilting away in a hospital bed.
But I'm getting depressing again.
I don't remember the attack. I remember that I skipped breakfast that morning. I remember that I was feeling very sorry for myself. I remember calling Bling and telling him to take the next couple of days off. I remember picking up the phone to call Max. And I remember chickening out.
I remember pain.
I remember fear.
I remember being glad that neither Max nor Bling were there. Glad that they were safe.
I remember feeling like I was going to die.
I remember crawling to the phone and dialing 911 before passing out again.
I remember wanting to die, wanting anything that would make the pain go away. An image of Max crying at my funeral and then getting on with her life flitted across my mind. And then…
Nothing.
I thought that was dead. I remember being very disappointed. I mean, I may be an atheist, but somewhere in the back of my mind I always thought that there must be something.
I've seen oblivion. I'm in no rush to get there.
They say that people in comas can hear you when you talk to them. I think they're right. I know I heard Max. My mind was to shut off to understand what she was saying, or even recognize who she was, but I still heard her. There was something about her voice that was always comforting. But it always seemed to go away too soon. It was something that I came to look forward to. A something in the nothingness. I was always sad when the sound of her voice went away. I think that's what finally snapped me out of it. Her voice went away and I tried to follow it.
It wasn't easy. Every time I tried I was bombarded by images, memories, emotions. A roaring sea of chaos that threatened to drown me. I just couldn't deal with it all, not all at once. So I pushed anything that didn't relate to that voice away and tried to reach her. It took me a long time. Her voice came and went many times before I was able to follow it. But I was sick of the nothing so I kept trying. I locked away every memory that didn't connect to her. And finally I woke up.
It took me ages to recognize the room as my own bedroom. It wasn't blurry, and I couldn't for the life of me work out why that surprised me. (Affects of the stem-cell enriched blood apparently. I no longer need glasses.) It had hardly looked like a bedroom with all of the machines in it. But they weren't what caught my attention. It was the faded blue armchair sitting by my bed. It looked totally out of place. It was big and padded. It seemed to swallow up the small figure that was curled up in it. Max. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and her head rested on one of the arms. Her right arm cradled her head. Her left hand rested on the bed. Close to, but not touching, mine. She was asleep. Tear tracks marred her face. A blanket covered her in such a way that somebody else must have put it over her.
I tried to talk. To say her name. But something stopped me. You have to remember that my mind was still mostly shut off at this time. I didn't realize that I had a breathing tube down my throat. All I knew was that I wanted to hear the voice of the beautiful sad angel (as my mind had come to call her) so I reached out and squeezed her hand.
It worked.