(Fiction)
The white sterility of the room projecting a false facade of angelic sun, filtering in through the half-opened blinds, illuminating the starkness, and cascading shadows across the walls. She lay there, eyes shut, propped up on the flimsy hospital pillows that have cradled the heads of the hopeless and ill. She rests, allowing the machines to take over and do the heavy lifting of breathing. I sit in a firm, hospital blue chair, whose stiffness hurries visitors along, holding firm to her hand and squeezing periodically, letting her know that I haven’t left her side.
The cacophony of chaos filters through the halls, pausing outside the glass door, thinking for just a moment before scurrying along. Startled, I frantically floated inside myself, unable to settle. I closed my eyes and imagined that I’m there with her, lost in her world of dreams.
I see her in her beige and blue home, situated across from a small pond, with a kitchen window overlooking the fig trees, swarming with bees. The grapevines that have been left to maintain themselves, growing unruly in their unsupervised state. I yell out for her, asking her to wait for me, but she continues to walk forward; she barely acknowledges me before her attention is abruptly ripped away and taken back to the previous week.
She didn’t get there fast enough, a slip up that could cost her her life. He wasn’t supposed to be home for a couple more hours, so she thought she had time. She completed a load of laundry and only needed to finish the dishes, deciding to listen to some radio to break the silence in their large, warmth-deprived house.
She didn’t hear the truck as it pulled into the driveway and turned off its engine. She didn’t hear the weight of the truck door as it was forcefully shut, or the sound of his voice huffing as he came up the front stoop. She didn’t hear the sound of his keys as they turned in the lock, or the front door opening.
The sound of running water muffled his footsteps as he pounded down the hall. I watched as her eyes grew wide with panic as she heard him coming, listening for any gruffness in his breathing; her eyes darted back and forth, turning pale, as she frantically tried to turn the music off.
The tenseness of her body revealed his tone before he even entered the room. She stepped backwards against the worn, white cabinets, apologizing, telling him she didn’t realize he was coming home early.
He moved his way over to the fridge, a soft gush of cold air ran forward, chilling her exposed arms. She stepped forward, leaning down under the kitchen sink, unlocking the child lock and grabbing the dishwasher detergent. He pushed past her, bumping her forward, almost causing her to hit her head on the kitchen counter.
He didn’t apologize; she didn’t expect him to.
Everything goes black as I’m abruptly jolted back, standing by the window which overlooks the top level of a parking garage. I watch as nurses in various shades of blue rush by in a blur, hurrying to her side. The lime green bruises painting her face, her eyes still swollen shut, and the clear, corrugated tube protruding from her mouth.
“It was an accident,” he said.
As her heart begins to beat once more, the sound of her machines mixes with those in the hall, and I find myself being drawn back, forced back into this broken body and fractured brain. She wanted to leave; I wanted to leave.