A story
Wow, it's ages since I've been on here...
Here is a story for your reading:
Title: Drifting
Series: Original
Warnings: Um, emotional-ness?
Word count: 1173(I think)
Rating: PG
I am...
I don't know who or what I am. Those words have no meaning here. I just am, drifting, sliding through nothing.
And nothing is nothing here, no light, no darkness. Nothing is not black. It doesn't have a colour. Life and death don't exist here, so I shouldn't, but I do, I am, so maybe the nothing isn't everything here, except it can't be everything because it's nothing. A paradox, except that a paradox is something, and nothing isn't. But I am.
Maybe I'm just imagining this, except that then I wouldn't be. All I am sure of is that I am.
And then maybe I'm the paradox, the only thing in existence, because nothing isn't a thing and therefore doesn't exist. The only reason I am is because I think and if I stop thinking I won't be able to start again, because then I will be nothing, all and none of nothing. Another non-existent paradox.
There was a time when I was more than a thought, something else, which, like who and what and where has no meaning here. But that was before.
Before...
If I try I can remember about colours, but all I remember are the names, blue, or orange, or green. I can't remember what a colour is. I know the sky is blue but I don't know what the sky is or what blue is.
I believe that somewhere in my memory is the key to why I am here, so I search, but I have been searching for what could be aeons and could be just a split second. And still I am drifting. . .
The doctor looks down at the girl on the bed. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't see. The only way he can tell she is alive is by the racing of the monitor attached to her scalp, and her slow steady breathing.
He knows she should be able to wake from the coma, but she is oblivious to the world around her. He knows this, but still he feels she is aware of... something else. He wishes he could ask her what is happening, but he knows she won't answer.
"No change?" A nurse comes up to stand beside him, looking at the girl with pity in her eyes.
"No change," he replies.
Sometimes the nothing changes.
It's the only way I know to count the passing of time, if time is passing. There have been three changes. Sometimes they seem close together, sometimes ages apart. But there is nothing else you can say. 'I remember three changes.' I can't say I have been here for hours, or years, or seconds.
I can't say how the nothing changes, because it doesn't make sense. It sort of seems less, and the memories grow stronger, but the changes aren't long enough to for me to find the key.
The last time it happened I remembered something. I don't know if I heard it or read it or spoke it. It’s a line from a song, but I don't know what a song is. It goes like this: 'now he guards the gate but he's lost the key.' With the memory came a burst of understanding, and I knew what a gate was, what guard meant, but when I grabbed at it, it was snatched away and I was left with nothing again. Nothing echoing with garbled remnants of understanding.
Maybe the changes are the key and if I can harness them then I can leave this place, so I don't have to think, so I can rest. Because I can't stop. I can't rest. I can only keep thinking, imagining, keep trying to remember.
"We can't take her off! That would be murder! There is still a chance she might recover!" The doctor fights to keep his voice low.
"How long has she been here?"
"Ten weeks -"
"And has her condition changed in that time?"
"No," says the doctor, "but her condition shows signs of awareness! Her mind is working. It would be murder!"
"Nevertheless. Two weeks. I am sorry," she adds, "but we haven't the time, the personnel, or the space." The manager leaves the room.
Later the doctor leaves too, walks down to the ward and along to the bed on the end. He looks down at the girl, still young, and not likely to grow older.
I wonder if my memories are real. They seem... odd, a surreal mixture of colours and sensations I have no word for. All I know are the nothing and I. And I am afraid.
Because I know the nothing I am afraid that I will stop thinking and lose myself. I am also afraid that that is the only way out of here. That to leave I will lose everything, including myself. And I am afraid there is nothing to go back to.
I'm scared of the fear, too, but I must think, and to think is to worry and to worry is to be afraid.
For light to exist there must be darkness, for life to exist there must be death. For nothing there must be something. And I am afraid that I am that something, and to go back I must cease to be so the nothing does too.
But will the nothing stop? It might just go on and some other thing, if other things exist, will be dragged in to fill the space.
I am a terrible coward. Stuck in a state of indecision, too scared to let go, too scared to go on like this. I must decide. Soon.
"That's not normal, is it?. I was told they stay until the family says."
"She has no family."
"Guardians?"
"Dead. Car crash."
"Oh."
"Yes."
The nurse brushes the girls' hair off her face. "It's a pity... I mean, she could grow up to be a great scientist, a world leader, someone important, powerful - but instead..."
"Yes..."
I have made my decision. If it works I will be back where I was before. If it doesn't, I won't know.
And I must do this, because I can't go on much longer.
I can't, so I must
Soon, now.
There is a sound from the end of the row of beds. The nurse, so used to silence, freezes, unbelieving.
It comes again, a small moan, just on the edge of hearing. She turns, and rushes down to the bed under the window. The girl shifts her head towards the wall. Then she gasps and looks upward. "I am," she says, then looks at the nurse. "What's my name?" she whispers.
"Anya," the nurse says.
I am Anya.
But there are so many memories I have lost.
When they ask me if I remember anything that happened in the coma, I say no, nothing happened. It's true, too.
I couldn't believe I was awake at first. I thought I was imagining things, or I'd gone made. I didn't believe it would work.
But it did, and I am.
Here is a story for your reading:
Title: Drifting
Series: Original
Warnings: Um, emotional-ness?
Word count: 1173(I think)
Rating: PG
I am...
I don't know who or what I am. Those words have no meaning here. I just am, drifting, sliding through nothing.
And nothing is nothing here, no light, no darkness. Nothing is not black. It doesn't have a colour. Life and death don't exist here, so I shouldn't, but I do, I am, so maybe the nothing isn't everything here, except it can't be everything because it's nothing. A paradox, except that a paradox is something, and nothing isn't. But I am.
Maybe I'm just imagining this, except that then I wouldn't be. All I am sure of is that I am.
And then maybe I'm the paradox, the only thing in existence, because nothing isn't a thing and therefore doesn't exist. The only reason I am is because I think and if I stop thinking I won't be able to start again, because then I will be nothing, all and none of nothing. Another non-existent paradox.
There was a time when I was more than a thought, something else, which, like who and what and where has no meaning here. But that was before.
Before...
If I try I can remember about colours, but all I remember are the names, blue, or orange, or green. I can't remember what a colour is. I know the sky is blue but I don't know what the sky is or what blue is.
I believe that somewhere in my memory is the key to why I am here, so I search, but I have been searching for what could be aeons and could be just a split second. And still I am drifting. . .
The doctor looks down at the girl on the bed. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't see. The only way he can tell she is alive is by the racing of the monitor attached to her scalp, and her slow steady breathing.
He knows she should be able to wake from the coma, but she is oblivious to the world around her. He knows this, but still he feels she is aware of... something else. He wishes he could ask her what is happening, but he knows she won't answer.
"No change?" A nurse comes up to stand beside him, looking at the girl with pity in her eyes.
"No change," he replies.
Sometimes the nothing changes.
It's the only way I know to count the passing of time, if time is passing. There have been three changes. Sometimes they seem close together, sometimes ages apart. But there is nothing else you can say. 'I remember three changes.' I can't say I have been here for hours, or years, or seconds.
I can't say how the nothing changes, because it doesn't make sense. It sort of seems less, and the memories grow stronger, but the changes aren't long enough to for me to find the key.
The last time it happened I remembered something. I don't know if I heard it or read it or spoke it. It’s a line from a song, but I don't know what a song is. It goes like this: 'now he guards the gate but he's lost the key.' With the memory came a burst of understanding, and I knew what a gate was, what guard meant, but when I grabbed at it, it was snatched away and I was left with nothing again. Nothing echoing with garbled remnants of understanding.
Maybe the changes are the key and if I can harness them then I can leave this place, so I don't have to think, so I can rest. Because I can't stop. I can't rest. I can only keep thinking, imagining, keep trying to remember.
"We can't take her off! That would be murder! There is still a chance she might recover!" The doctor fights to keep his voice low.
"How long has she been here?"
"Ten weeks -"
"And has her condition changed in that time?"
"No," says the doctor, "but her condition shows signs of awareness! Her mind is working. It would be murder!"
"Nevertheless. Two weeks. I am sorry," she adds, "but we haven't the time, the personnel, or the space." The manager leaves the room.
Later the doctor leaves too, walks down to the ward and along to the bed on the end. He looks down at the girl, still young, and not likely to grow older.
I wonder if my memories are real. They seem... odd, a surreal mixture of colours and sensations I have no word for. All I know are the nothing and I. And I am afraid.
Because I know the nothing I am afraid that I will stop thinking and lose myself. I am also afraid that that is the only way out of here. That to leave I will lose everything, including myself. And I am afraid there is nothing to go back to.
I'm scared of the fear, too, but I must think, and to think is to worry and to worry is to be afraid.
For light to exist there must be darkness, for life to exist there must be death. For nothing there must be something. And I am afraid that I am that something, and to go back I must cease to be so the nothing does too.
But will the nothing stop? It might just go on and some other thing, if other things exist, will be dragged in to fill the space.
I am a terrible coward. Stuck in a state of indecision, too scared to let go, too scared to go on like this. I must decide. Soon.
"That's not normal, is it?. I was told they stay until the family says."
"She has no family."
"Guardians?"
"Dead. Car crash."
"Oh."
"Yes."
The nurse brushes the girls' hair off her face. "It's a pity... I mean, she could grow up to be a great scientist, a world leader, someone important, powerful - but instead..."
"Yes..."
I have made my decision. If it works I will be back where I was before. If it doesn't, I won't know.
And I must do this, because I can't go on much longer.
I can't, so I must
Soon, now.
There is a sound from the end of the row of beds. The nurse, so used to silence, freezes, unbelieving.
It comes again, a small moan, just on the edge of hearing. She turns, and rushes down to the bed under the window. The girl shifts her head towards the wall. Then she gasps and looks upward. "I am," she says, then looks at the nurse. "What's my name?" she whispers.
"Anya," the nurse says.
I am Anya.
But there are so many memories I have lost.
When they ask me if I remember anything that happened in the coma, I say no, nothing happened. It's true, too.
I couldn't believe I was awake at first. I thought I was imagining things, or I'd gone made. I didn't believe it would work.
But it did, and I am.