Post by kaiku on Oct 24, 2008 15:31:25 GMT -5
I think it's rather funny that I've made this thread for my stories and can't even write a decent introduction before I post it! Never mind. I can blame my extreme tiredness.
Anyway, the story below is a little something that I wrote over the summer holidays to get me back into the swing of writing (silly college took up all of my time before that). It's kind of an experiment because I don't tend to write in first person or present tense, let alone both of them together.
It doesn't really have a very good title because... Well, because I fail at making up titles. *laugh*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You okay?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
I turn my head and find his face inches from mine, brown eyes widened questioningly. Strands of tousled dark hair fall forward over his face. Smiling, I brush them away and kiss him lightly on the lips.
“I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.”
After a moment of closely inspecting my face, he nods and leans back on his bed. I shuffle on my chair slightly so I can rest my head on his pillow too. My eyes scan the all-too-familiar room, from the chink of orange streetlight stealing in through a gap in the heavy purple curtains to the jug of water standing, half-full, on the bedside cabinet beside a dozen get well soon cards.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I blink. What was I thinking? Something about the whole notion of “glass half-full” and “glass half-empty”… then strange images that make no sense when I try to recall them. The bizarre, jumbled thoughts of someone drifting halfway between consciousness and sleep.
“I’m wondering whether hospitals put something in the air conditioning to make everybody tired to save having to deal with angry patients or noisy families.”
He laughs and the sound brings a smile to my face. God, it’s so good to hear him laugh again.
“You don’t have to stay if you’re tired. I honestly won’t mind if you-”
I shake my head.
“No, I’m staying,” I say. He knows it’s no use arguing.
We sit in comfortable silence for some time, his fingers gently twirling the white-gold ring on my left hand. I find myself studying his face, a face I know as well as my own. He still looks a bit peaky, and his hair needs cutting. I’ll have to persuade him to go back to that barber’s along the road; they did a much better job of it than that expensive salon in the city centre…
My thoughts begin to drift again and I shake myself awake with a sigh.
“I’m just going out to get a coffee, okay?”
I walk slowly down the corridor, the bright lights burning my eyes after spending best part of two hours in a darkened room. A high-pitched squeaking alerts me that an empty gurney is being wheeled in the opposite direction and I move out of the way just in time. A young nurse walking right behind it smiles at me, and I smile back.
As I walk, I become lost in my own thoughts again, only these thoughts are crystal clear and vivid…
The midnight phone call and how I felt sick before I even picked it up. The taxi driver’s wide eyes as I handed over double what the fare was worth without a second glance. The seemingly endless wait for someone to tell me what was happening. The doctor’s grave expression and how I collapsed back into my seat, fearing the worst. The way my hopes were raised and then shattered when I was told that he was alive but critical, and might not make it through the night. The thought of never seeing his face or hearing him laugh again. The idea that I might be widowed at just twenty-four years old…
I blink and my thoughts return to the present. I can hear something that sounds like singing. How strange. I don’t recognise this corridor; I must have made a wrong turning somewhere. I decide to turn back, but somehow my feet are still carrying me onwards down the hall, until I reach a room at the very end with an open door. The singing is louder now. Though I know it’s wrong of me to do so, I can’t help myself; I look inside the room.
“You okay?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
I get a sense of déjà vu as I slowly lower myself back into the chair, only this time he’s the one who’s on the verge of falling asleep. I’m more wide awake than I have been for some time.
He’s watching me, his eyelids heavy. I’m struck by how curiously child-like he looks when he’s half-asleep, and though I would have earlier regarded it as being sweet, the thought now brings a momentary pang of sadness. I reach over and stroke his hair gently. His eyes close.
“Was the coffee machine broken?” he mumbles.
“What?” I whisper; but he’s already asleep.
I sit there for some time, frowning slightly, puzzling over what he just said to me. It is only when I look down at my hand that I realise it’s empty.
A child, barely six or seven years old, was lying pale and still in the hospital bed. His eyes were closed and outlined with dark circles. There was a steady whistle and puff of the ventilator as it rhythmically forced air into his lungs, punctuated only by the uniform beeping of the heart monitor… and the singing.
My gaze turned to the other occupant of the room, a woman with thick, mousy hair that obscured her face as she leaned forward over the bed. She was holding the child’s hand in both of hers and singing a slow, quiet melody. Her voice was too low for me to hear any words but a part of me seemed to already know them.
Time slowed, and the three of us seemed to stay like that for hours; mother singing to her sick son, and myself, an intruder, standing mesmerised at the door and witnessing a moment that is sure to haunt me for the rest of my life.
The woman stopped singing and turned her head to look at me. Her cheeks were dry, but her eyes were filled with a sorrow beyond that which tears could convey. I began to flush, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, but she didn’t appear angry at all. She smiled sadly at me.
In that moment, I felt that I knew everything she was going through; her pain, her fear, her grief. The feelings almost suffocated me and my throat closed up as I fought back tears.
Of course, I didn’t understand; not really. I hope I never do.
My throat was too tight to speak, but I knew there was nothing I could have said anyway. All I could do was close my eyes and nod my head once, slowly, then walk away.
I sit bolt upright in my chair. My husband stirs slightly in his sleep, but I pay him no attention. I’m holding my breath and listening. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, or this is all just part of a dream, but somewhere in the distance I swear I can hear an unrelenting, monotonous beeping.
A heart monitor flat lining.
I close my eyes as they fill with tears.
Anyway, the story below is a little something that I wrote over the summer holidays to get me back into the swing of writing (silly college took up all of my time before that). It's kind of an experiment because I don't tend to write in first person or present tense, let alone both of them together.
It doesn't really have a very good title because... Well, because I fail at making up titles. *laugh*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Loss
“You okay?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
I turn my head and find his face inches from mine, brown eyes widened questioningly. Strands of tousled dark hair fall forward over his face. Smiling, I brush them away and kiss him lightly on the lips.
“I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.”
After a moment of closely inspecting my face, he nods and leans back on his bed. I shuffle on my chair slightly so I can rest my head on his pillow too. My eyes scan the all-too-familiar room, from the chink of orange streetlight stealing in through a gap in the heavy purple curtains to the jug of water standing, half-full, on the bedside cabinet beside a dozen get well soon cards.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I blink. What was I thinking? Something about the whole notion of “glass half-full” and “glass half-empty”… then strange images that make no sense when I try to recall them. The bizarre, jumbled thoughts of someone drifting halfway between consciousness and sleep.
“I’m wondering whether hospitals put something in the air conditioning to make everybody tired to save having to deal with angry patients or noisy families.”
He laughs and the sound brings a smile to my face. God, it’s so good to hear him laugh again.
“You don’t have to stay if you’re tired. I honestly won’t mind if you-”
I shake my head.
“No, I’m staying,” I say. He knows it’s no use arguing.
We sit in comfortable silence for some time, his fingers gently twirling the white-gold ring on my left hand. I find myself studying his face, a face I know as well as my own. He still looks a bit peaky, and his hair needs cutting. I’ll have to persuade him to go back to that barber’s along the road; they did a much better job of it than that expensive salon in the city centre…
My thoughts begin to drift again and I shake myself awake with a sigh.
“I’m just going out to get a coffee, okay?”
* * *
I walk slowly down the corridor, the bright lights burning my eyes after spending best part of two hours in a darkened room. A high-pitched squeaking alerts me that an empty gurney is being wheeled in the opposite direction and I move out of the way just in time. A young nurse walking right behind it smiles at me, and I smile back.
As I walk, I become lost in my own thoughts again, only these thoughts are crystal clear and vivid…
The midnight phone call and how I felt sick before I even picked it up. The taxi driver’s wide eyes as I handed over double what the fare was worth without a second glance. The seemingly endless wait for someone to tell me what was happening. The doctor’s grave expression and how I collapsed back into my seat, fearing the worst. The way my hopes were raised and then shattered when I was told that he was alive but critical, and might not make it through the night. The thought of never seeing his face or hearing him laugh again. The idea that I might be widowed at just twenty-four years old…
I blink and my thoughts return to the present. I can hear something that sounds like singing. How strange. I don’t recognise this corridor; I must have made a wrong turning somewhere. I decide to turn back, but somehow my feet are still carrying me onwards down the hall, until I reach a room at the very end with an open door. The singing is louder now. Though I know it’s wrong of me to do so, I can’t help myself; I look inside the room.
* * *
“You okay?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
I get a sense of déjà vu as I slowly lower myself back into the chair, only this time he’s the one who’s on the verge of falling asleep. I’m more wide awake than I have been for some time.
He’s watching me, his eyelids heavy. I’m struck by how curiously child-like he looks when he’s half-asleep, and though I would have earlier regarded it as being sweet, the thought now brings a momentary pang of sadness. I reach over and stroke his hair gently. His eyes close.
“Was the coffee machine broken?” he mumbles.
“What?” I whisper; but he’s already asleep.
I sit there for some time, frowning slightly, puzzling over what he just said to me. It is only when I look down at my hand that I realise it’s empty.
* * *
A child, barely six or seven years old, was lying pale and still in the hospital bed. His eyes were closed and outlined with dark circles. There was a steady whistle and puff of the ventilator as it rhythmically forced air into his lungs, punctuated only by the uniform beeping of the heart monitor… and the singing.
My gaze turned to the other occupant of the room, a woman with thick, mousy hair that obscured her face as she leaned forward over the bed. She was holding the child’s hand in both of hers and singing a slow, quiet melody. Her voice was too low for me to hear any words but a part of me seemed to already know them.
Time slowed, and the three of us seemed to stay like that for hours; mother singing to her sick son, and myself, an intruder, standing mesmerised at the door and witnessing a moment that is sure to haunt me for the rest of my life.
The woman stopped singing and turned her head to look at me. Her cheeks were dry, but her eyes were filled with a sorrow beyond that which tears could convey. I began to flush, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, but she didn’t appear angry at all. She smiled sadly at me.
In that moment, I felt that I knew everything she was going through; her pain, her fear, her grief. The feelings almost suffocated me and my throat closed up as I fought back tears.
Of course, I didn’t understand; not really. I hope I never do.
My throat was too tight to speak, but I knew there was nothing I could have said anyway. All I could do was close my eyes and nod my head once, slowly, then walk away.
* * *
I sit bolt upright in my chair. My husband stirs slightly in his sleep, but I pay him no attention. I’m holding my breath and listening. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, or this is all just part of a dream, but somewhere in the distance I swear I can hear an unrelenting, monotonous beeping.
A heart monitor flat lining.
I close my eyes as they fill with tears.