The sound of the heart monitor pervaded my dreams.
The dismal, all encompassing darkness that I had drifted in slowly began to fade away, and I was aware first of the flat stack of pillows supporting my neck and head. The soft beeping of the monitor seemed to echo through the quiet room, bouncing off the pale yellow walls and the chocolate floor. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the ceiling; it was white and speckled, and the specks seemed to wriggle and dance in my blurred vision like thousands of dark maggots. I felt my toes next as I was drawn from my deep slumber. They were cool, and I shifted a little, trying to push them beneath the heavy blanket that was folded at the end of the bed. Thin, cool sheets were draped over my emaciated form like virgin snow. My knees were tiny hills on the white landscape; my bony hands, the color of the sheets, were folded neatly at my ribs. The mattress felt hard beneath me, and I imagined that a coffin would probably be more comfortable. This line of thought brought painful memories to my hazed mind as in the background I could hear the wheels of a cart as it rolled passed my door down the hallway. By my bed was an IV bag dangling from its metal stem; the liquid within was dripping almost in time with the steady beeping of the monitor. I noticed flowers by one of the two long windows that stood side by side on the wall to the right of my bed. The red, blue and yellow striped curtains had been pulled back sometime while I had slept to allow the sun to spill into the room. A light hung from the ceiling by a thin cord, dangling motionlessly over a tan and white table that rested against the small space between the windows. Two chairs sat across from each other, facing each other, on each side of the table; the wood of the chairs matched the tan coloring of the table’s legs. The cushions of the chairs were a strange, dark honey color. I could just see the tips of the trees from the windows; the green leaves dancing in a gentle breeze. The leaves, they were beginning to change, and I cringed, forcing myself to move my leaden arms so that I might turn my back to those windows, to the fading spring.
I drew my legs up to my chest and draped one arm around the stirring sheets, my fingertips pressed against the prominent bones of my shin that laid beneath the sheets. My other hand I lifted to my head, brushing my trembling fingers against the bare skin where my hair was beginning to grow back. The growing hairs felt soft and fuzzy; I could remember once when it had been long, at least to my shoulders, and how it danced in the wind and fell before my eyes like a pale, flaxen curtain. Shivering, I lowered my eyes to look down at the needle and tube that was attached to my hand. The tube ran back to the IV bag; it was pumping sustenance into my veins. I dared not eat. I told them I would not eat, and they had done this to force me. I could not understand why they wanted to prolong my life.
My other hand lowered from my head to touch the tube and I caressed it with the tips of my pale fingers. My eyes lifted, looking at the bed across from me. The curtain that had separated my bed from the other had been drawn back. There were balloons on loose, curling strings hanging on a little table by the bed. Light from the windows danced on the colors of the balloons, scattering shards of purple, pink, yellow and blue light onto the neatly folded sheets of the bed. Cards hung by colored tacks on a bulletin board. They begged for a miracle, these cards; they begged and pleaded despite their bright colors and happy smiles. There was a deep, unfathomable pain behind them, but they brought a small smile to my face nonetheless. That person there, the one whose bed was now empty, that person had been loved and had loved.
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