Pieces, part five
Well, so far so good...
Pieces, parts 1-4
I remember better in dreams. In dreams, I have more respite from the years of mental conditioning that still dominate my waking life. I can feel things more honestly. The more I allow myself to dream, the more I can pull back with me when I wake up again. Awake, I have to test and trick myself, and learn to act like a socially functional person. I struggle with this. The real struggle started here, in my dreams. Slowly, very slowly, I am breaking out.
This is a dream about the last time I saw Anna. It has come to mind because I hope to see her again, and because I have been thinking of our son. I wasn't there when he was born. I was on assignment. She was early.
The hospital elevator is quiet at this time of night. It chimes quietly as it passes uninterrupted between the floors, slowing as it reaches the fifth. I have been going for almost thirty-six hours straight now, but I couldn’t bear to rest before coming here. I feel guilty for being absent, and apprehensive, though I don't yet know why. Anna's younger brother Adam came to her while he was away. She sent me a message - she had been overjoyed at his return. Adam ran away from home at 14. He'd sent occasional letters, but no one had seen him since. He took my place by her side when my son was born.
I step off the elevator. The halls are dark, but there is a light on at the nurse's station. It is empty - presumably the nurses are doing rounds, or perhaps they have been called away. It suits me fine. It wasn't difficult for me to get in here, but it is a rules violation. I might get reprimanded, but the fewer people I have to deal with, the less significant the infraction will seem.
Anna's room is just ahead. The light is on, and I smile. She must be awake. I'd tried to leave a message saying that I would probably get in late tonight, and that I would come by if I could. Maybe she is waiting for me. She would do that, even though she knows I would tell her to rest. I am lucky to have her, and I know it. I still feel on guard for some reason.
I step inside. She's sleeping, with a smile on her face. She looks pale and beautiful, as ever. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she is wearing a yellow hospital gown. She always sleeps on her back, unless I'm beside her, and now one of her arms is hanging over the side of the bed. Her hand points to the small hospital crib, lined with a blue sheet. The identification tag on the front reads 'Graves'. It's empty, but I can hear voices down the hall…
I've dreamed this before. I know what happens next; I don't want to see it now, or dwell on it later. I want to dwell on Anna.
I step further into the room, past the empty crib, and take her hand in mine. Her smile widens, but she doesn't wake. My remembered exhaustion fades, the voices in the background grow silent. This is my dream now: it is just the two of us.
A sadness lingers as I wake up. It is a hard dream to leave, and harder when the faces the world presents are all so unfriendly. I could push away the sadness with a thought, but there would be nothing to take its place.
Pieces, parts 1-4
I remember better in dreams. In dreams, I have more respite from the years of mental conditioning that still dominate my waking life. I can feel things more honestly. The more I allow myself to dream, the more I can pull back with me when I wake up again. Awake, I have to test and trick myself, and learn to act like a socially functional person. I struggle with this. The real struggle started here, in my dreams. Slowly, very slowly, I am breaking out.
This is a dream about the last time I saw Anna. It has come to mind because I hope to see her again, and because I have been thinking of our son. I wasn't there when he was born. I was on assignment. She was early.
The hospital elevator is quiet at this time of night. It chimes quietly as it passes uninterrupted between the floors, slowing as it reaches the fifth. I have been going for almost thirty-six hours straight now, but I couldn’t bear to rest before coming here. I feel guilty for being absent, and apprehensive, though I don't yet know why. Anna's younger brother Adam came to her while he was away. She sent me a message - she had been overjoyed at his return. Adam ran away from home at 14. He'd sent occasional letters, but no one had seen him since. He took my place by her side when my son was born.
I step off the elevator. The halls are dark, but there is a light on at the nurse's station. It is empty - presumably the nurses are doing rounds, or perhaps they have been called away. It suits me fine. It wasn't difficult for me to get in here, but it is a rules violation. I might get reprimanded, but the fewer people I have to deal with, the less significant the infraction will seem.
Anna's room is just ahead. The light is on, and I smile. She must be awake. I'd tried to leave a message saying that I would probably get in late tonight, and that I would come by if I could. Maybe she is waiting for me. She would do that, even though she knows I would tell her to rest. I am lucky to have her, and I know it. I still feel on guard for some reason.
I step inside. She's sleeping, with a smile on her face. She looks pale and beautiful, as ever. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she is wearing a yellow hospital gown. She always sleeps on her back, unless I'm beside her, and now one of her arms is hanging over the side of the bed. Her hand points to the small hospital crib, lined with a blue sheet. The identification tag on the front reads 'Graves'. It's empty, but I can hear voices down the hall…
I've dreamed this before. I know what happens next; I don't want to see it now, or dwell on it later. I want to dwell on Anna.
I step further into the room, past the empty crib, and take her hand in mine. Her smile widens, but she doesn't wake. My remembered exhaustion fades, the voices in the background grow silent. This is my dream now: it is just the two of us.
A sadness lingers as I wake up. It is a hard dream to leave, and harder when the faces the world presents are all so unfriendly. I could push away the sadness with a thought, but there would be nothing to take its place.