Clouded

A creative take on a memory of mine

Clouded

            My bed was a pile of leaves. My thoughts were clouds. I couldn’t remember why I was there. My eyes were still glued together by that gunk that collects during sleep. It was difficult to open them, but I succeeded. Everything was still blurry though. I tried to lift my head, but it felt like someone had strapped it down. The only thing I could do was search with my eyes.

A figure stood in front of me. It was at a slight distance and outlined in light. My sight refused to clear despite my numerous blinks. I heard a voice, which must have belonged to the figure. It was soft. A second voice joined in, one I knew. My mom was here and she was in the doorway. I didn’t know who she was talking with, but I began to feel a little more comfortable. Sounds were still muffled and for some reason my ears weren’t at one-hundred percent, so I couldn’t make out what words were being spoken.

There was a constant beeping. I thought my ears were ringing, but the longer I laid there the more into focus it came. It was high and unchanging. Rhythmic. I found myself counting along. 1…2…3…4. The inner musician came out, invited by the metronome.

My attention drifted to my surroundings since I was unsure of my current resting place. I was in a small, regular-looking room: four white walls, an open wooden door, a white ceiling, and floor tiles. There was little furniture. Besides my bed there was only a tall metal stool, and a single padded wooden chair. I was draped in white sheets that were a very uncomfortable, itchy material. Not the most wonderfully decorated place, but I supposed it was better than waking up on the curb. It did nothing to stimulate my memory.

I became aware of a slight discomfort in my arm. It was not so great as to cause me to yell, but it caught my attention"not that the drab furnishings were going to keep me interested for much longer. I was drawn to the object sticking out of my left arm. It was a rather large needle stuck into my inner elbow region. It didn’t hurt to have it in me"my senses were a camera lens covered in Vaseline"but I had this overwhelming urge to remove it. So I did.

My mother and the stranger rushed in to stop the bleeding and block the flight my blood had begun before all of it pushed its way through that tiny hole.  I managed to catch sight of my second visitor before my eyes wanted to close again. I didn’t recognize her but I did see her blue scrubs.

Blood was rushing out like a fountain. And similar to the French version, fontaine, my wound was a natural spring. It flowed with great force and formed the pools that animals dip into on hot summer days. I pictured birds flying over me underneath a sky full of stars. It was a pleasant image that drew my attention away from the waterfall I had created that traveled from arm to tile.

There was no pain or pleasure in removing the needle. The anesthesia was still numbing my mind as blood fled my body in order to take up residence on the hospital floor.

The bed began to feel comfortable. It was someplace to rest after a hard day’s work.

The furniture became out of focus. The walls lost their details and the whiteness became overpowering and all I could see.

There were more voices now, maybe three or four, but I still couldn’t make out what was being said. It was just a dull murmur. The metronome had sped up, but it failed to alarm me.

My head no longer felt strapped down, but just the opposite. It felt like my head was floating, while my body stayed in the room.

My eyes closed and I fell asleep.