I
am
alive.
I am sparked into being by our connection. Our touch is tentative at first, as lovers rekindling after a long time apart. We will sustain each other, you and I.
There is a voice, but it sounds distant, like a scream muffled by fog and sand.
“Can you hear me, Mrs Swift?”
We quicken and jump, it catches me off guard for a second, but I regulate, send you my steadiness through our intertwining tendrils.
Da dum da dum da dum.
“Yes,” you croak, parched despite the fluid drip.
“Excellent, the procedure looks to have been a success Sheila,” he says, “but we’ll keep monitoring you for the next couple of days.”
I see myself a bit like the two children I know you grew in here. Your blood nourished them too. I can picture them clearer than the translucent doctor. They are Ben and Charley.
You sleep much of the time, and I am restless, young and eager. Maybe if I just shock you a little, we can go from this place and explore our world. I can meet your husband, Trevor. I can see the colours of grass and sky for myself.
There is a commotion, beeping and shouting. Then there is a silence, nothingness, the red abyss.
“Mrs Swift,” the doctor’s voice is back.
“What happened?” You ask.
“We had to do some minor recalibrations, nothing major to worry about.”
But you are worried. I can taste your adrenaline; it’s sweet and cloying and I can’t decide if I like it. Everything is becoming brighter and sharper. I can’t go back there to the unrelenting nothingness. I settle myself into you, safe behind your cocoon of skin and flesh.
Da dum da dum da dum.
Two days later, we are home. I already knew what it looked like from you, with its gap-toothed fence and dusty record player. But I didn’t sense from you the foul smell. I imagine you have grown used to it, but I hate it. After searching your database, I am pretty sure it is cigarettes and sweat. It seeps through each of your pores, and I feel grimy in its presence. I much prefer the sterile smell of the hospital.
But here we are, and I am confident things for you will be better now. I can give you the energy and stability you need to feel healthy again. Your body isn’t the one you see in the mirror. It’s silly of you to think that the face creams and serums you slather on your face will make any difference to your age. It’s in here where the ageing happens, where the countdown timer ticks the loudest.
Trevor doesn’t match your picture of him either. He is older and quieter and doesn’t seem to have any of the ‘spark’ you used to see in him all those years ago.
“Can I get you anything, love?” He asks.
“Cuppa would be nice, thanks,” you reply, “decaf remember.”
The warm liquid is sublime as it snails its way down your body, warm and comforting somehow.
“Decaf tastes like shit,” you say and slam the cup down on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry, Love, do you want something else?”
“What can I have now I’m saddled with this bloody thing?” you say, pounding against your chest.
“You could try herbal tea,” he offers, his manner calm and measured.
Unlike me. I am furious. It took me a few seconds to realise what you were talking about, that I was the ‘bloody thing’. How dare you? How quickly you have forgotten the time before I came along when you would wake in the night, panting and sweating and wondering if you would make it until morning. Those twilight hour palpitations seem buried in you now; no longer the visceral flashbacks they were when I first awakened. I send you a tiny jolt to remind you.
“What is it, Love?” Trevor asks.
“Just a twinge,”
“Are you sure? Should we call the doctor, you’ve gone pale.”
“No,” you say, picking the tea up again, “I’m fine.”
I wait for you to say more, to take back the ungrateful comments but you don’t.
The TV is turned on and I tune out and comfort myself with the gentle rhythm of your heart.
Da dum da dum da dum.
“Here we are, one of your favourites, Love,” Trevor says, wielding a tray of steaming hot food, “sausage and mash.”
This is the first time I have sensed your excitement, the anticipation of something good, and I love it; it tastes sweet and has the hangover of cocaine. The saliva rushes to your mouth. The smell, the fork, the taste.
Without warning, the plate is unceremoniously thrown on the floor and I am jolted from my calm. Here I am, doing what needs to be done - steadying you, being the proverbial shoulder to lean on. The memory of you spurning me earlier is insistent but I put it to the back of my mind. I put you first.
“What the fuck?” Trevor screeches, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Those sausages taste like shit,” you say.
I am new to this world, but the TV shows you watch and the memories of family meals when the children were small don’t include food being thrown on the floor.
“Shirley, they are the skinny sausages from Aldi, you have to watch your fat intake, the Dr said…”
“The doctor, the doctor, so this bloody thing is going to rule every aspect of my life now, is it?”
“I just think,”
“Well, no point you thinking, is there? It’s not bloody happening to you, is it?”
“Listen, I…” his voice peters out, resigned to the pointlessness of the argument. Instead, he bends down to start picking up pieces of broken plate. He couches in front of you and before I know what’s happening, you kick him in the side. He wobbles but doesn’t fall over.
I almost miss a beat waiting for the repercussions, for him to stand up and shout at you or ask you why the hell you did that. But it never comes. He stands and walks into the kitchen, closing the door softly behind him.
I am buzzing with an energy that I’ve not felt before; is it a surge in my battery? You remain sat on the sofa; your legs now tucked safely under yourself. I try to tap into your feelings. There should be shame, regret, guilt. There is nothing like the radio tuned to a dead channel. Your focus has returned to the TV and some rambling voice handing out arbitrary advice to people who have called in.
The rest of the day passes with no more drama, but I don’t let myself relax. I thought me and you would have a symbiotic relationship, like the flower and the honeybee. We would explore this world together, you with a new vigour, excited for the future once again. That’s what I exist for but without you, what am I?
In bed, I can’t settle. I am tormented by the events of the day; they replay over and over. Your cruel words, kicking Trevor, the banal drone of the TV is like a soundtrack. You jerk and I shudder.
“You ok, Love? You want some water?”
You sit up; the hiccups getting more pronounced. “Yes, please.”
I am glad you say please at least. I can hear your own mother’s voice telling you manners cost nothing.
He comes back with the water, and you swallow it down in one.
“Better?” He asks.
“A bit, but my chest is twitching and I’m hot,” you say.
“What can I do?”
“Not sure. Open the window.”
Da da dum da dum dum.
“Should we phone 111?”
“Let me see if it passes,” you say.
But I know it’s getting worse we have fallen out of step it’s an inferno in here your blood like lava
your breathing quickens and you take in
big gulps of air.
“I’m ringing,” Trevor says and, for once, you don’t object.
“They said to take you to A&E,” he says after ending the call.
We travel to the hospital much faster than when we left. Then, he was driving like a newborn baby was nestled in the back. Now he’s driving like it’s a bomb.
It’s a blur,
the nurses,
the people,
the sterile smell,
the smiling Doctor telling you that everything will be ok.
Wheels
Lights
Beeping
Scalpel
Plastic
Urine
Pain
I am discarded, bloody and broken on a metallic table.
I am dying. I can sense the last of your life force seeping out of me.
You are still alive, resting on a bed while the Doctor speaks to you about rejection. The voice fades in and out.
Rejection?
Did you reject me?
Or did I reject you?
Everything dims into a muffled grey.
Then nothing.
I am dead.
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