Dreaming with a Broken Heart

I wrote this after listening to the John Mayer song, "Dreaming with a Broken Heart"

 It had been three days since I had slept. The memory of her face was barely visible when I shut my eyes. Her porcelain skin was fading into her perfect copper colored hair that flowed around her round face. The too blue eyes were losing their spark. A crack formed in my heart, and I knew I had to do something.

            I muddled toward the kitchen and took the bag the drug dealer had handed me and took it to the bedroom. All attempts had failed, everything I did to try and get back to her had left me a borderline psychotic, severely tired lunatic, and these chemicals were going to be my way in, a way back to the world, and the girl, that I really loved.

            The baggie contained ten little white pills, and I sat for a moment contemplating the dosage. Too much and I would die, too little and I wouldn’t fall asleep. I figured seven would make sure I passed out, and if they killed me it would be a slow death. Enough time to tell her I love her and hold her one last time. I threw them down my throat and swallowed hard. The scraping on the back of my mouth produced a very unpleasant medicine taste, so I swallowed a few more times.

            I dropped back onto the bed and closed my eyes, waiting for the pills to take me over. My breathing became erratic and it was hard to take a deep breath. The back of my eyelids changed from black and white to lights and colors dancing in the darkness. I squinted a few times, and then there we were.

            It was like waking up from a dream instead of falling into one. It was more real than any other time I had traveled here. She and I were sitting at a table outside some bakery in France. The smell of bread filled my nostrils and I could feel the metal table beneath my hands. I looked over at Gwen.

            She was looking down at the table. I pushed my eyebrows together and reached over to take her hand. The moment I touched her, she pulled back and looked up at me. Her ocean eyes were flooded with tears, the black mascara running down her rosy cheeks.

            She had never looked at me like that before, and I instantly knew something was wrong. This was, of course, the first time I had come here artificially. Every other time had been a natural occurrence of my suicidal REM cycle. I say suicidal because after meeting her the first time, my literal dream girl, I never wanted anything to do with my waking life.

            “Gwen, it’s me.” I tried to say, but nothing came out. My mouth would not move.

            “GWEN!” I screamed, but still, nothing.

            She suddenly got up and ran away from me. I demanded my body to move, to chase after her, to hold her, to make her kiss me, but my legs stayed planted to the ground, my legs stuck to the metal chair. I was shocked at myself, disgusted. I wanted out, I needed out now.

            I began to choke on something. Something was in my throat, in my lungs. It was burning me from the inside out. I coughed and coughed, but nothing happened.

            Then it all went black.

 

 

 

            “Jack?”

            Voices in the black were the first things I heard, then the constant beeping of monitors and shuffling of people. I opened my eyes and they were instantly invaded with the white light of the hospital room around me.

            “Uggg.” I groaned, attempting to let out the bubbling loneliness with my physical agony.

            “Jack.” Isabell sighed and looked with concern upon me. I began to open my mouth to try and speak, but she hushed me and got up to close the door to the room. I recognized this hospital as St. Johns, but I had never been a room this color before.

            “Whe-“ I tried to say, but found my throat was raw and burned with each swallow.

            “Don’t try and speak. They had to pump your stomach, and the doctor said it would hurt for a few days.” She walked back over to my bed and sat down next to me, taking my hand. I flinched when she touched me, but tried to stay still for her.

            “Where am I, Issie?” I gruffly forced out.

            Her green eyes peered out the window and she took three deep breathes before answering.

            “My flight landed early, and so I arrived home a good 5 hours before you were expecting me. When I walked in the bedroom, I thought you were just sleeping, but then you vomited all over yourself. I called 911 immediately.”

            I tried to piece together what she was telling me. I tried to remember what I had been doing, but all I could bring to memory was the smell of fresh bread and the feel of cold metal.

            “When they finally got you to the hospital and you were stable, the doctor came and asked me if you were on any medications. They said they found a powerful sedative in your system.”

            She suddenly looked at me, and I could see the cold tears that stained her face.

            “Don’t worry Jack. I told them you had been seeing a psychiatrist. I told them he prescribed them to help you sleep. I told them you must’ve made a mistake, you had to have made a mistake, you-“ She looked back out the window. “Did you make a mistake, Jack?”

            I knew by her tone she was not just asking about the pills.  Even now I couldn’t decide it if was the pills or the marriage which had been a mistake.

            I raised a shaking hand in an attempt to comfort her, but I couldn’t make myself caress her shoulder. Everything was falling apart. Just when I thought it was falling into place, when I was happy, when I was truly awake, the cracks were beginning to show.

Author's Note

I haven't quite decided what type of story this will be, whether i flush it out for a book, or just a little flushing for a short story, or leaving it. thanks for your help in advance!

Reviews

[deeps]

I like this the way it is.
Wonderful write.
Wonderful detail and imagery.
Would be interesting if added on to.
It's wonderful the way it is too.