I don't know where I am. I scream and I kick and I cry for release.
Nothing responds, I am no longer in control. How do I get out of here? I
want my body back. I want this mental panic to go away. How do I do that?
My ears still work, though I can only make sense of every other conversation. I will hear sobbing, begging, for someone named Travis. Am I Travis?
Whoever Travis is, he is lonely. Only eight voices. Eight separate different voices. No more, no less.
I get sleepy, though I don't know how this is possible. If I can't control my body how come I still get sleepy? And if I get sleepy, why can't I feel anything?
Emotions.
When I get sleepy I escape. I escape the crying, the tears, and most of all the begging. I escape to the purple mountains in the distance. When I get there, I see signs, like the kind you see on the side of the road. One says "London" another says "Hong Kong" another says "Roscoe". I don't make sense of it; it's all a swirl of letters and colors.
But other signs actually elicit a response from me. Not emotional responses, but responses nonetheless. "Radio Free Roscoe", "friends" "Lily Ray and Robbie." I don't understand.
All I know is that when I make sense of this all, I am going to give my mother a big hug. Because, in some un-emotional way, I miss her.
The waiting room was filled with six people. No more, no less.
Three of them stood off to the side, huddled around each other, trying to keep each other warm, and support the others emotionally.
And to keep each other warm. They didn't heat this part of the hospital.
The old lady from across the room walked over to the small group. Her eyes hadn't recovered from the crying she obviously had been doing. She attempted a smile, but only ended up bursting in tears. As she passed them by, she gave the nearest one a pat on the shoulder. It was obviously meant for comfort.
They weren't comforted much. Her son had just died.
And then there were five.
The person that the old woman had patted turned around and headed toward the bathroom. The entire waiting room heard him throwing up. The young man's name was Robbie McGrath. His friend's names were Lily Randall and Ray Brennan.
Somewhere in the distance, the clearing of a throat shook all five people out of their reveries. The doctor. Finally.
"So. . . uh. . ." he was young and obviously felt uncertain that it was his place to tell them any news. He cleared his throat again and tried again, "Well. . . uh. . . Travis. . . yeah. . . he uh, isn't out of the woods." The young doctor suddenly gained confidence in the fact that he could give them good news, "but he is stabilized, and is exhibiting symptoms that show that there is little if any brain damage."
Several of them sighed in relief, others looks of worry were intensified.
It was a way to tell the difference between an optimist and a pessimist.
I can feel myself slipping away. Slipping away to the purple mountains. But I can't. There's someone here, someone familiar.
He talks, not as though I was a person, which I guess I am, but as though I was a dead body. Not worth the spit he was wasting. I assume he was talking to me.
"I'm sorry Travis, but I'd rather not feel the pain this time." He whispered, but it clouded my head with echoes. Stop STOP STOP!
Something's snapped inside my body, and I felt something, it's.it was anger, but not really, it was a kind of synthetic anger or something close to it. I felt synthetic anger toward this person who is kicking Travis, who might be me, out of his life.
But it's too late for questions, because I'm slipping away. The purple mountains are calling my name, and it's time for a well-deserved rest.
Somewhere around two o'clock in the morning, the group of three had moved into the hospital cafeteria to warm up, and maybe get a bite to eat.
But none of them felt like eating.
Robbie and Lily sat around a circular table and watched as Ray paced, sat down, stood up, and began to pace again. Every once in a while he would mutter something that he didn't understand himself.
Muttering was something he could do with his mouth.
"Maybe we should. . . uh. . . get some food, y'know?" Ray asked tentatively.
It was an awkward question, but at least it was something.
"I can't. It's a big job to keep from throwing up on an empty stomach." Robbie answered.
"Yeah." Ray agreed and began pacing again. So Ray paced, Robbie watched, Lily looked out the window for another hour. "I just wanna run screaming out of this freaking place." Ray muttered. "Run, scream, yeah." Lily muttered.
Sometimes, in the purple mountains, I feel a hand on my forehead. A warm, secure hand, that feels so familiar. When I reach for the hand, it's not there anymore, and my mental isolation is even more prominent.
When I feel the hand, I feel safe, warm, loved.
And sometimes, when I concentrate really hard, I hear her voice, and even in my confusion I know who it is.
Mom, this is your little boy. You know your little boy don't you? I need help, I need answers, I need you.
But when I call out for her, she disappears. And I am left on my own again. Why can't she help me?
The question is not why she can't help me. Why can't I help myself?
My ears still work, though I can only make sense of every other conversation. I will hear sobbing, begging, for someone named Travis. Am I Travis?
Whoever Travis is, he is lonely. Only eight voices. Eight separate different voices. No more, no less.
I get sleepy, though I don't know how this is possible. If I can't control my body how come I still get sleepy? And if I get sleepy, why can't I feel anything?
Emotions.
When I get sleepy I escape. I escape the crying, the tears, and most of all the begging. I escape to the purple mountains in the distance. When I get there, I see signs, like the kind you see on the side of the road. One says "London" another says "Hong Kong" another says "Roscoe". I don't make sense of it; it's all a swirl of letters and colors.
But other signs actually elicit a response from me. Not emotional responses, but responses nonetheless. "Radio Free Roscoe", "friends" "Lily Ray and Robbie." I don't understand.
All I know is that when I make sense of this all, I am going to give my mother a big hug. Because, in some un-emotional way, I miss her.
The waiting room was filled with six people. No more, no less.
Three of them stood off to the side, huddled around each other, trying to keep each other warm, and support the others emotionally.
And to keep each other warm. They didn't heat this part of the hospital.
The old lady from across the room walked over to the small group. Her eyes hadn't recovered from the crying she obviously had been doing. She attempted a smile, but only ended up bursting in tears. As she passed them by, she gave the nearest one a pat on the shoulder. It was obviously meant for comfort.
They weren't comforted much. Her son had just died.
And then there were five.
The person that the old woman had patted turned around and headed toward the bathroom. The entire waiting room heard him throwing up. The young man's name was Robbie McGrath. His friend's names were Lily Randall and Ray Brennan.
Somewhere in the distance, the clearing of a throat shook all five people out of their reveries. The doctor. Finally.
"So. . . uh. . ." he was young and obviously felt uncertain that it was his place to tell them any news. He cleared his throat again and tried again, "Well. . . uh. . . Travis. . . yeah. . . he uh, isn't out of the woods." The young doctor suddenly gained confidence in the fact that he could give them good news, "but he is stabilized, and is exhibiting symptoms that show that there is little if any brain damage."
Several of them sighed in relief, others looks of worry were intensified.
It was a way to tell the difference between an optimist and a pessimist.
I can feel myself slipping away. Slipping away to the purple mountains. But I can't. There's someone here, someone familiar.
He talks, not as though I was a person, which I guess I am, but as though I was a dead body. Not worth the spit he was wasting. I assume he was talking to me.
"I'm sorry Travis, but I'd rather not feel the pain this time." He whispered, but it clouded my head with echoes. Stop STOP STOP!
Something's snapped inside my body, and I felt something, it's.it was anger, but not really, it was a kind of synthetic anger or something close to it. I felt synthetic anger toward this person who is kicking Travis, who might be me, out of his life.
But it's too late for questions, because I'm slipping away. The purple mountains are calling my name, and it's time for a well-deserved rest.
Somewhere around two o'clock in the morning, the group of three had moved into the hospital cafeteria to warm up, and maybe get a bite to eat.
But none of them felt like eating.
Robbie and Lily sat around a circular table and watched as Ray paced, sat down, stood up, and began to pace again. Every once in a while he would mutter something that he didn't understand himself.
Muttering was something he could do with his mouth.
"Maybe we should. . . uh. . . get some food, y'know?" Ray asked tentatively.
It was an awkward question, but at least it was something.
"I can't. It's a big job to keep from throwing up on an empty stomach." Robbie answered.
"Yeah." Ray agreed and began pacing again. So Ray paced, Robbie watched, Lily looked out the window for another hour. "I just wanna run screaming out of this freaking place." Ray muttered. "Run, scream, yeah." Lily muttered.
Sometimes, in the purple mountains, I feel a hand on my forehead. A warm, secure hand, that feels so familiar. When I reach for the hand, it's not there anymore, and my mental isolation is even more prominent.
When I feel the hand, I feel safe, warm, loved.
And sometimes, when I concentrate really hard, I hear her voice, and even in my confusion I know who it is.
Mom, this is your little boy. You know your little boy don't you? I need help, I need answers, I need you.
But when I call out for her, she disappears. And I am left on my own again. Why can't she help me?
The question is not why she can't help me. Why can't I help myself?