Short Writing Week 9
“Consciousness”
Some context here.
All of my family are here for some reason. There is weeping. Joyful weeping? Someone takes my hand but the lights are too bright to see who it is. What is this room exactly? There is a tube going into my arm. I’ll leave it there, it’s probably doing some good. Everyone on TV tears those things out immediately. I try to speak but nothing happens. Don’t try to speak, someone says. Too late, friend. Something beeps and several more people come in, with several more lights. Why are they all in my eyes? Do you know where you are, one asks. Something cold touches me. Don’t try to speak, someone else says. You’ve been in a -
There’s still something in my arm. Fewer people here, but they seem very animated. One of them rushes to the door and makes a loud noise, while another grips my hand tightly. Don’t try to speak, they say, and then, immediately, do you understand me? I don’t know which one to respond to but they’re already gone and someone else is shining a light directly into my eyes again, and saying something about brain function. Two people hug. How long has it -
There’s only one person, and they’re asleep. There is a steady beeping noise. I know now not to try and speak so I don’t. The lights are mostly off and I like it better. I stand my hand up on my fingers, like a spider, and see how many of them I can move. Seems to be three. Is that the correct amount? They’re still asleep. I tap gently against the bed frame. I tap as strongly as I can against the bed frame and it’s about the same. The person wakes up and starts to -
Right on time, they say. I told you there was a pattern. Someone else who sounds in charge says the words medically impossible. A third person doesn’t care if it makes sense. The light is back. Against impending advice, I try to speak. Wha. That’s what comes out. Everyone is enthralled, so I do it again. What. I realise belatedly that that’s the wrong word so I try again. Whe. Close. Keep trying, someone says. Where. It’s the hospital, they say. You’re waking up every -
Eleven days. Right on cue, says someone. There’s a camera this time. Lots of people. I don’t know them. He typically lasts five to seven minutes, says a voice that sounds important. Why. We don’t know. He can’t speak. Can he write. Someone grabs my hand and squeezes it but I don’t feel connected to it suddenly and it clangs against the bedpost. I feel nothing. Do you know where you are, says Important Voice. I do because you told me a few minutes ago. Hops. Yes, they say. Close. He’s getting it. Nearly time though. You’re measuring everything. Let’s see what -
Incredible. To the second. There is something extremely heavy on my head and I can’t lift up my neck. I can’t see how many people are there this time, but there is a low hum of conversation and the ambient noise of electronics. You should try to speak, says someone, but I don’t know what to say. Does he know, say someone else. I think we’ve got all we need. I’ll see you in eleven -
Empty room. Lights off. I wait. Eventually someone walks in. Shit, you’re awake. Quickly out of the room. My head is heavy still. We don’t know why, nineteen days, pattern didn’t last very -
Empty room. Different room. Nobody comes.
Same room. Nobody here. I make a fist and loosen it. I move my toes slightly. I try and say something but I don’t know what it is. I can’t tell if a noise came out.
Small room. One lamp on. A noise, and footsteps from the outside. Look, it’s getting longer. We can’t keep you like this. Insurance ran out a long time ago. It’s a hard decision, but it’s the right one. You understand. You understand, right? Just stay there until I get a chance to -
Same room. Thumping footsteps, opening door. Look, sign this. Can’t grip, but someone holds my hand. Scraping noise across paper. You understand. Insurance. He’s done it, they’re shouting. More feet. Someone holds my other hand. Sorry but we -
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