Nightblindness
The floor is cold. Her hair is wet. Her skin is scraped. And the darkness is all consuming. She lays there, knees pulled up, arms draped weakly over her chest. She's beyond being able to tell if her eyes are open or closed anymore. They could be either. Maybe both. All she can hear is the sound of her own breath, her heartbeat in her ears. Her stomach stopped growling hours, days, minutes ago.
Her joints are sore and aching, but it's the excruciating pain from her chest that brings tears to her eyes. Slowly, she opens her eyes, or at least she thinks she does. It's still dark, but she thinks she can see faint outlines of a doorway. There are soft, muffled voices from beyond it, like there's a wall between her and the conversation. Absently, she runs her fingers lightly over her chest. Tape and tubes brush her fingertips.
"...shouldn't have survived," filters in, louder than the rest of the conversation. A woman's voice.
"And she's all alone..." Another woman's voice, lower than the first.
"No one has come for her?"
Jen tries to answer these voices, but her throat is so dry. Her lips crack and she licks them, trying again to get a sound out. "No," she croaks, "No, Jethro came." Even her own voice sounds far away. Can they hear her? They don't seem to notice.
The second voice speaks again, in a whisper that sounds like a shout. "I don't think she has anyone who loves her."
"He does," Jen says again, her voice breaking as the tears start to fall. Why wasn't Jethro here? Where was he? "He'll come for me. He loves me."
"Shh, sweetie. You're having a nightmare," it's the first voice.
Jen can see her now, recognizing her as a nurse. She looks up at the older woman and holds out her hand where her ring and the bracelet are supposed to be. But they're not there. Did they take them? "Where's my ring? My bracelet?" she asks, but her voice barely comes out in a hoarse whisper.
The nurse shakes her head, "You didn't come in with anything."
"Yes. I did," Jen answers, trying to force some cold steel back into her words. "It's a diamond solitaire. The bracelet, it's gold with two stones." But the nurse doesn't respond, just shakes her head and straightens the blankets around her.
When she doesn't get an answer, Jen changes the subject, "Call my husband. He'd be here. He probably just doesn't know." A tired, desperate smile graces her lips as she stares up at the nurse, "We're having a child together." She moves her hands to her abdomen, but it's flat.
Panic sets in. Tears stream down her cheeks. She's too tired to care, in too much pain to stop it. "Wh-what happened? Did I miscarry again?" Her voice sounds so small.
The nurse frowns, "You've never been pregnant, sweetheart," she says and casts a glance over her shoulder. Who was she looking at? Had Jethro shown up?
"Yes, I am!" she says through her sobs and through the tears and gasps for air.
Another nurse comes in and starts to get out a syringe and another of those unlabeled vials of liquid. No, no more drugs. Jen starts to scramble to her feet, pulling at the IVs and the tubes in her chest and the blankets twisted up at her ankles. She can't stay here. She has to go home. She needs to find her husband. The nurse moves out of the way, just watching as Jen wobbles on her feet. They're not making any effort to force her to stay. The stitches between her breasts pull and bleed, soaking through the gauze.
She starts walking slowly towards the door. "There's nothing out there for you," says the second nurse, pausing in her movements to fill the syringe with a sedative.
He has to be out there. Her life is out there, waiting for her. "You're just imagining things, sweetie. None of that is real," adds the other nurse.
Jen doesn't believe her. It is real.
She takes off at a run for the door, but the door doesn't give way. The damp cinderblock wall doesn't move as her head connects with it, knocking her back to the wet floor. She lays there, sobbing, rolling onto her stomach and barely clinging to consciousness.
Nothing is real but the puddle that smells like iron under her cheek and the light streaming in through the dusty venetian blinds. Her fingertips scrape weakly at the dry, sandy floor and the broken glass. The diner is real. She never left. The last six months have all been images produced by misfiring neurons as they die. As she dies.
She wants to die.
[words 799]
[continued on HERE ]
Her joints are sore and aching, but it's the excruciating pain from her chest that brings tears to her eyes. Slowly, she opens her eyes, or at least she thinks she does. It's still dark, but she thinks she can see faint outlines of a doorway. There are soft, muffled voices from beyond it, like there's a wall between her and the conversation. Absently, she runs her fingers lightly over her chest. Tape and tubes brush her fingertips.
"...shouldn't have survived," filters in, louder than the rest of the conversation. A woman's voice.
"And she's all alone..." Another woman's voice, lower than the first.
"No one has come for her?"
Jen tries to answer these voices, but her throat is so dry. Her lips crack and she licks them, trying again to get a sound out. "No," she croaks, "No, Jethro came." Even her own voice sounds far away. Can they hear her? They don't seem to notice.
The second voice speaks again, in a whisper that sounds like a shout. "I don't think she has anyone who loves her."
"He does," Jen says again, her voice breaking as the tears start to fall. Why wasn't Jethro here? Where was he? "He'll come for me. He loves me."
"Shh, sweetie. You're having a nightmare," it's the first voice.
Jen can see her now, recognizing her as a nurse. She looks up at the older woman and holds out her hand where her ring and the bracelet are supposed to be. But they're not there. Did they take them? "Where's my ring? My bracelet?" she asks, but her voice barely comes out in a hoarse whisper.
The nurse shakes her head, "You didn't come in with anything."
"Yes. I did," Jen answers, trying to force some cold steel back into her words. "It's a diamond solitaire. The bracelet, it's gold with two stones." But the nurse doesn't respond, just shakes her head and straightens the blankets around her.
When she doesn't get an answer, Jen changes the subject, "Call my husband. He'd be here. He probably just doesn't know." A tired, desperate smile graces her lips as she stares up at the nurse, "We're having a child together." She moves her hands to her abdomen, but it's flat.
Panic sets in. Tears stream down her cheeks. She's too tired to care, in too much pain to stop it. "Wh-what happened? Did I miscarry again?" Her voice sounds so small.
The nurse frowns, "You've never been pregnant, sweetheart," she says and casts a glance over her shoulder. Who was she looking at? Had Jethro shown up?
"Yes, I am!" she says through her sobs and through the tears and gasps for air.
Another nurse comes in and starts to get out a syringe and another of those unlabeled vials of liquid. No, no more drugs. Jen starts to scramble to her feet, pulling at the IVs and the tubes in her chest and the blankets twisted up at her ankles. She can't stay here. She has to go home. She needs to find her husband. The nurse moves out of the way, just watching as Jen wobbles on her feet. They're not making any effort to force her to stay. The stitches between her breasts pull and bleed, soaking through the gauze.
She starts walking slowly towards the door. "There's nothing out there for you," says the second nurse, pausing in her movements to fill the syringe with a sedative.
He has to be out there. Her life is out there, waiting for her. "You're just imagining things, sweetie. None of that is real," adds the other nurse.
Jen doesn't believe her. It is real.
She takes off at a run for the door, but the door doesn't give way. The damp cinderblock wall doesn't move as her head connects with it, knocking her back to the wet floor. She lays there, sobbing, rolling onto her stomach and barely clinging to consciousness.
Nothing is real but the puddle that smells like iron under her cheek and the light streaming in through the dusty venetian blinds. Her fingertips scrape weakly at the dry, sandy floor and the broken glass. The diner is real. She never left. The last six months have all been images produced by misfiring neurons as they die. As she dies.
She wants to die.
[words 799]
[continued on HERE ]