"A Brand New Start." MWC 01/15/95
He sat on the park bench, paper bag of popcorn between his feet, completely
oblivious to the pigeons attacking the bag & his now bloodied ankles... head
in his hands, tiny sobs of despair racking his frame, & the plethora of early
morning joggers passed him by as if he were invisible; eager to be on their
way, & not wanting to take on anyone else's troubles, they left him there in
his misery...
Sitting up, some hours later, he noticed the scraps of paper that was the
bag, the bits of bloodstained sock littering the ground around his shoes, & the
crusted red lumps that were his ankles... reaching out & softly touching one,
he pulled his hand back in a fist, clenched in pain... the scream locked in
his throat, he sat up straight & clenched the bench itself... knuckles turning
white, wood begining to splinter, his jaw set like a vise against his tongue to
keep the curses at bay, a single tear rolled down his face, washing along the
dried trails of it's brethren...
As the pain subsided to a dull throbbing, he tried to stand, only to grip
the top of the bench so hard the wood completely broke away & sent him tumbling
backwards on to his butt... lying there, the board in one hand & his knee in
the other, his cries still silent into the morning crowds ignoring him as they
passed by encased within their own little bubbles of apathy...
He started to
stand once more, using the board as a crutch, & this time managed to make it
work... hobbling, unsteady, but standing none-the-less, he began to limp over
to the nearby Information Kiosk in an attempt to call for some help...
Rounding the back of the Kiosk, the sounds of papers rustling could be
heard through the thin, uninsulated walls of the booth, & he stepped into the
front of the tiny line to lean across the counter at the person sitting there
reading a paper...
"Help me" he croaked, his voice cracking with the pain, "I need an
ambulance..."
No response...
"Please, help me... I'm hurt, & I need a doctor...."
Nothing.
"Please, Mister, you've gotta call a doctor! I'm bleeding here!" he almost
screamed through the tears streaming down his face once more... the
frustration at being ignored, the indignity of having to beg, it all built up
inside of him until he exploded... leaping across the counter, he lunged at
the man's throat, only to fall short & crash against the floor at the guy's
feet...
No reaction.
"Pllleeeeeaaasssseeeeee help me... I need a do...." he managed to stammer
before completely passing out...
....lights, bright, white, hellish lights blared down on him; squeezing the
eyelids together as tightly as he could only dimmed the searing light from
unbearable to excruciating... so he tried to turn his head...
Nothing.
"What the????" he thought to himself..." Why can't I move my head?"
Searching, he could feel his arms, his legs, could wiggle his fingers &
toes, but couldn't *move* his arms, legs, or head... it was like he was being...
Restrained.
Opening his mouth to speak, he felt the words come to his lips, but that's
where it all ended- his mouth just lay there like it was set in granite;
refusing to move, just barely open enough for the air to come in through the...
Hose.
"What's this?" he thought, as he finally noticed a tube, sitting beside his
tongue & running to the back of his throat... he should have been gagging,
but it didn't hurt... unlike his ankles, his arms, hell *everything* was in
some degree of pain or another, but most of it was just a dull throb, easily
dealt with, almost mild enough to be ignored, but the pain of not being able to
move, hurt more than anything *physical* he could feel...
"Where am I?" he thought to himself... I can still feel myself, I'm all
here, but I can't move... wait, I can hear...
Voices.
A man, saying something into the air, like he's talking to someone else,
but he can't hear but the man's breathing... deep, rhythmic breathing, with an
undercurrent of something he can't quite grasp... something black, something
bad... something not right with the way the man's breathing...
Cancer.
The word fills his mind, but he doesn't feel the fear as if he were
associating it with himself... instead, he seems to know that it's the man
who's talking that has the cancer, & that he will die... wanting to speak,
trying to talk, at least warn the man that he's ill, he tries once more to
speak, but again, nothing escapes his lips...
The voice, he hears it clearly now. It's a doctor, talking to someone that
he either can't see, can't hear, or he's talking into a...
Microphone.
What? Why would a doctor be talking into a microphone?
Buzzing.
What's that? I hear something metallic... something spinning... whatthe?
A saw.
"HEY! NO! You can't do that! I'm still alive!" he wants to scream, but not
even a breath escapes his lips...
The voice says the patient died of internal haemorrhaging, but that the
autopsy will be conclusive, so he may as well start the cutting now...
"NOOOOOO!!!!!!" he wants to scream- for all he's worth, he wants to scream
it to the world, but nothing happens. As the saw touches his stomach & cuts
through his ribs with agonizing pain, he knows all is lost...
Bright lights.
Spots.
Music, he hears music...
"Am I dead?" he asks himself... "I thought so once before, & then he cut
into me... maybe *now* I'm dead?"
Laughter.
"Who's laughing?" he thinks to himself...
The sounds of a party, a boisterous one.
Loud voices singing & chanting something.
"What is happening to me?" he wonders, his lips dry & cracked, yet they
still manage a brief croak of sound... "HEY!" he thinks, "I heard that! I made
that sound! I can make sounds again! YES! Oh thank gods!"
Cold.
Light.
Dizziness.
Voices screaming & crying, singing in my head...
"What the hell is happening to me?!" he wonders aloud, but all he can hear
is himself crying in pain, in joy, at the feeling of being alive...
Something hits him, hard.
"OW! SunOvAB...!!! That hurt!" he tries to scream, but all that comes out
is a wail that makes the voices cheer...
Loud voices, everywhere, something warm wraps around him, & someone's arms
encompass him like he were a...
Baby. |
