Waking

About a young woman who is in a coma, as a result of trying to kill herself.

When she woke in the darkness, she felt strangely empty.  Not a heavy emptiness, like that which is not truly emptiness, but is depression.  No, this was a light, foreign emptiness she had never before touched.  She did not know how she came to be in this void, nor did she care.  The darkness was a blanket, like that which envelops the sun by nightfall, like the curtain that serves as the backdrop to the stars that dance by the moon's borrowed glow.

She felt old and new all at once, as if she were Time itself, stretched across worlds forgotten and worlds undiscovered.  She was free at last, free from a prison she never knew she had been incarcerated in.  She was free from the walls of her body, free from all structure.  There was nothing less to do with this freedom but taste it and embrace it, for she was not scared.  In the bright, limiting place she had somehow escaped, she would have been frightened, but here she was not.  With the clarity of the endless, perfect blackness for a mind and the sharpness of the stars for eyes, she was able to think on a level unknown to the life she had left.

She knew, upon waking, that this was her true existence.  What she chose to do with it was entirely up to her, and she had the power to do so.  She could create a new, beautiful world that was all her own.  She could sew the fabric of a new universe with the silver thread of consciousness... she could build a great city with the body of the night. 

The darkness was the canvas.  The void was endless.  She was the pen.

And then... the clarity and perfection of her dark void was interrupted by a faint voice from the outside.  But how could there be an outside?  The darkness was all that was, she was all that was.  And she had not created a voice.  She willed it away, but the voice was still there, calling...

What was it saying?  She did not want to know; if it was from the place she had come from, she wanted nothing to do with it.  But why?  Was the place terrible?  Of course it was, it had limits, it had structure, it was not hers.  When first she woke in the darkness, she remembered none of it, and did not care.  But now the voice was stirring something deep inside her, something familiar. 

No!  She did not want to remember, she did not want to be tied down by memories.  Suddenly, she saw them.  With her eyes like stars and her endless void of a mind so dark and beautiful, she saw the flames.  The flames.  At first, they were tiny, mere sparks, but they grew bigger and leaped higher into her mind... her mind, the void... her subconscious.  And still the voice, the voice like screams and whispers and silence and the wind that howled on stormy mornings in the place she called home...

And the flutter of wings... no, it was the beating of a heart.  Was it her own?  She did not know, the memories like knives, cutting deeper into the darkness, filling the emptiness with the things she should be free of...

Sadness.  Pain.  Anger.  Hunger.  Need.  Regret.  Sorrow.  Despair.  Confusion.  Many, many other emotions, along with one she could not place.
The barrage of faded, hazy memories was forcing her down,
            down,
                         down,

She fought it with everything she could, in the darkness, tumbling, losing the wonderful empty feeling of power and possibility as she fell.  And then the voice called her name.  She had a name.  And she had a word for that one feeling she could not place:

Love.

And time and space and the void and the darkness and the stars and the silver thread she would have used to sew a permanent, perfect haven for herself... all of it was consumed, engulfed by the flames that burned with the Love that kept at bay the horrors of the place she called home...

When she woke, she was in a bright white room.  She was no longer empty in any way, and she was not alone.  The voice was with her.  The voice that called to her in that dark place that was her subconscious-- that void that had consumed and nearly destroyed her broken mind.  The voice that brought her back belonged to a young man.  He spoke her name again, this time a whisper filled with all the heavy, destructive emotions she had wanted to be free from.  She opened her eyes and willed the Love to wash away their pain, for it was truly endless and limitless and perfect.

 

Author's Note

I have no idea if this is any good, it was just a seed of an idea that grew into a wild vine as I wrote.

Reviews

[Sheri Aderman]

But you have Plenty of potential

[Sheri Aderman]

Well,My problem with this Piece of Writing is that in my opinion it lacks true Substance It all kinda feels like filler. Although On the Worth meter This is passable.

[December Blaize]

Okay, thanks for your feedback. It wasn't really supposed to be a story with an actual plot, just a descriptive piece.

[Heather Maria]

You are very descriptive. In one way I like, but in another I think it's too much. It almost reminds me of long poem rather than a story. This would be neat reflection within a story, but I don't think the effect works on its own. Thank you for submitting it in my contest!

[Schyala]

Love the description, tone, and vocabulary. This is a beautiful piece :)

[IAmGhost120]

WOW. I really loved the way that you described being in the coma: its mystery, its vastness, its continuance. And I loved how you ended it, by making Love the salvation. This is one of the most excellent short stories I have seen in a long time; why don't you check out some of my contests? http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Stuff-That-No-One-Talks-About/45795/ would be suitable for this. Anyway, this was just fantastic. I love your use of language. Keep writing!!

[SlipKnoT]

That was amazing, the way you described the silver thread of consciousness that was really, really great. You have a gift with words.

[Marie]

Yes, good. Such a story of finding and loss, and overwhelming love...