by A. M. Hudson
Resting back on the tide of inert reality, I let the waves of isolation carry me away.
“How is she?” The voice echoe d through my endles s night, resonating from somewhere
behind me. But there was no one here. I didn’t even bother to look. The fight to hold on to reality
was a battle I gave up long ago—so, I just listened to hear what these voices said.
I could feel that I was weak—not my body,
that was long gone—but my mi nd or spirit,
whatever it was that kept me here this l imbo, this death that never ended, this hell that never
changed. I couldn’t remember how I got here, and I couldn’t remember where here was. But I knew a
voice; he called himself Mike. Though, whoever just spoke sounded different.
“No change,” said a woman; her voice was familiar, too.
“Can she hear us?” he said. “Her monitor changes when I speak. See?”
“It’s just static.” As soon as t hat man spoke, I knew it was Mike. The other one s ounded
almost too smooth to be Mike; l iquid, if that was the right word. I’d heard his voice from time to
time, but he’d never said his name.
“It’s not static. Look, she can hear me.”
“You wish.”
“Mike,” the woman whispered. “Be nice.”
“Fine,” Mike said in a tone that indicated a set of folded arms to go with it. “From what I
know, the doc says she can.”
“Ara? My love.” Mr. Smooth sounded closer than before. “I’m so sorry—” he said. “Please?
Please come back to me?”
My love? This was familiar to me somehow, if an ything could even be familiar anymore.
Could he be speaking to me—am I Ara? The name rung a bell, but...
A cold sensation stopped my thoughts, bringing something to life—an old memory—a distant
reflection.
My hand. I felt it. I could feel my hand.
A smile burst within me, radiating through my soul like liquid as I rejoiced for the brilliance
of a hand. I t hought they’d taken it, I thought they’d taken everything, but the cold against my hand
confirmed it was s till there. And if my hand was stil l there, I wondered if, maybe....maybe this
wasn’t death after all.
Maybe it was... something else.
I focused on the memory of touch and boiled t he strength de ep inside my non-existent
stomach—pushing all the force out through my arms—and then, I squeezed the cold with my fingers.
“Did you see that?” the stranger said. “I think...I think she just squeezed my hand!”
He felt that? He knows I’m here . He felt me? I squeezed harder, trying to pull myself back
into consciousness.
“She did. She squeezed my hand. Look.”
“What do you mean she squeezed your hand?” Mike’s voice came from closer than before
and, though it was still dark, I fe lt space around me—felt him clos e to me. The echoing mist of
eternity flowed out through the cracks in my subconscious, leaving me whole again. I could feel my
body; could feel solidity in my limbs. They felt heavy. Really heavy. I didn’t remember being this
heavy. I couldn’t move them yet, but they were there, and so was gravity.
I love gravity. I’ve missed gravity.
“Ara.” The smooth stranger interrupted my moment of celebration.
I’m here, I thought loudly. I’m here!
“Ara,” he called again.
“I—” But my words fell short—lost t o nothing, unable to push past the barrier of my empty
prison. My lips t witched, trying to find my voice in the place it used to be. But as I f ought for a
presence in the world I used to belong, the solidity, the consciousness of touch in my hands trickled
away like smoke out an open window.
No!
I wanted to look down, to grab hold of the cold that held me alive so long, but though my
body was in their world, I didn’t own it—I couldn’t use it.
The surface quaked under me, my legs tilted through the gr ound, angling my entire body
away from existence. My heart reached out, grabbed at imaginary branches as the ground completely
came out from under me.
I fell.
There was no wind and no trees for whi ch to show my descent, but I fel t it—felt the ground
rising up. I tensed all over, ready to hit the surfa ce, but nothing ever came, only the emptiness of my
eternal, hollow hell.
I didn’t bother to cry this time as the darkness swallowed me whole, and hope had been lost
so long that I’d never truly allowed i t back in. I simply existed—in the dark. Alone. My body alive
out there somewhere, an empty vessel in a living world, while my soul was slowly dying beneath it.
More time passed. The voices came and went, but the link to my body never r eturned. I
stopped trying to feel anything, and just prayed for the days I’d hear their voices.
“Hello,” the smooth voice said.
“How is she?”
“No change, Mike—I don’t know. She’s struggling to breathe.”
I am? I can’t feel that.
“I know,” Mike said. “They’re gonna put her on a breathing thing.”
The smooth voice sighed. “I don’t want that for her—she’s been through enough.”
“I know, man, but it’ s for the bes t.” Mike’s warm energy emanated from his voice
somewhere near. I wished I could feel him, like, actually touch him. “I can’t l ose her. I’d rather s ee
her with a tube down her throat than in a coffin.”
“Prolonging life merely to save your own heart is selfish, Mike.”
“She might recover,” Mike said.
“Recover?” his tone rose up dryly. “Look at her—does she look like she’s going to recover?”
“Stop yelling,” Mike’s tone of reason made my heart soar with desire to be on the receiving
end of one of his lectures. “If they hear you, they’ll make you leave. One at a time in here,
remember?”
There was a short pause. “It’s five in the morning. Technically it’s my shift.”
“Don’t start this again, Da—”
“Look, I’m not saying you have to go, just—” Suddenly, my hand returned—just my hand,
with a sharp, cold sensation trav elling right through each bone in my fingers . I tensed. I t hurt, like
holding onto ice or snow a little too long. “Just don’t talk hope, okay. I can’t bear to even hope.”
The words he spoke surrounded me, I’d heard them but could only focus on the painful chill
along my fingertips. I wanted it to stop, wanted to find my hand and push it away.
“Maybe you should take a walk—you look....stressed,” Mike said.
“You’re right. I’ve been here too long. I’m losing my mind, I—” The cold in my hand
suddenly came away, replaced by a warm touch that melted the chill left behind. The numbness there
folded around whatever was in my hand. I wasn’t sure, but it felt like Mike—the way three of his
fingers curled into mine were enough to fill my entire palm. I wanted him to know I could feel him,
wanted him to know that, despite the fact that I couldn’t talk to him, I was still here. Somehow, I was
still here.
“Is she...smiling?” Mike’s voice peaked on the edge of excited curiosity.
“It means nothing,” said the smooth voice. “It’s just a muscle reflex.”
“No,” Mike said. “No, she is smiling.”
The smooth voice sighed.
“I’m here, baby girl. I’m here,” Mike whispered in my e
ar, the warmth of his breath brushing
against my hair. It was pleasant—not at all like the cold that had brought me back into reality.
But though the cold was gone, I stayed—i n my mind—aware, in this consciousness—
surrounded by the black pit of nothing. I could even smell him now, Mike; he smelled like...a feeling.
Like...home.
I wanted to go home—wanted to be like Dorothy and find my way.
I opened my eyes in the darkness . I’d had dreams here before, imagined dreams, imagined
walking or talking to people. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can imagine a pair of ruby slippers .
Magic ones, like Dor othy had in the movies. Dad would berate me for not imagining silver ones—
like they were in the book—but I l iked red; it re minded of another feelin g…something to do with
forever. Repeating the words Dorothy used as a spell to get back home, I pictured a pair of sparkling,
ruby-coloured shoes, and clicked my heels together.
“What’s she saying?” asked the smooth stranger.
“Something about...?” Mike paused, then repeated my words— my words! They can hear me?
“Do you think she’s dreaming?” Mike asked.
“Perhaps. Or trying to find her way home,” Mr. Smooth suggested.
I tried harder, closing my imaginary eyes and meshing my lips tightly together. I wanted him
to hear me again, I wanted to say “I’m here! Mike, I’m here. Please come find me!” But he never
heard me. Not when I was alone in the dark, and not even while I was present in my body.
“Look at her skin.” A hand fell on my br ow—a warm one. “She’s pale. Do you think she’s
turni—?”
Silence. An empty chill stole the hum of the world, and a flat, dense darkness consumed my
hope, until I looked down and saw my hands. My hands, my feet—everything. I was alone again, but
this time my body had come with me.
Then, something in the distance sparkled; colour against the shadows—red—ruby red.
My slippers.
Ignoring my nakedness, I ran, falling to my knees in front of them. But when I reached down,
my hands grasped nothing except the vacant space of a shattered wish.
Just before my heart dropped, red shimmered again, a few steps away. I laun ched at them
with ungraceful speed, squatting down to grab them just as they disappeared into the dark again.
No! I cried inside, losing hope to the empty silence that had become my life.
My fingers fisted the hair behind my ears an d I folded over, weeping aloud, even though no
one would hear me. “I just want to go home,” I yelled up at the in different black. “Do you hear me?
Let me go!”
As the anger turned to fear, like a vacuum sucking a hole in my belly, I sat on the ground and
hugged my knees to my chest, whimpering to myself in the hollow silence.
I’m alive—but I’m never getting out of here.
More days passed, and without my mind or body or the solidity of my limbs to keep me sane,
I wandered through the dank eternity of nothing—searching for the li ght to take me home, praying
I’d find anything; be it heaven or hell.
Then I heard a high, short tone. A beep.
I looked up; it was st ill dark, but I’d never heard that sound be fore, nor the quiet pumping of
air that filled the background.
The beeps continued.
What is that?
The sound travelled through my ear canals and f looded my jaw, my collarbones and rushed
through my arms, bringing the solid feeling back with it again—solid and heavy and cold—so cold.
A blanket. I need a blanket.
I couldn’t move my mo uth. I wanted to speak, but something was stuck against my teeth;
something plastic, round and tight—forcing air through my lungs—causing an icy ache in my throat.
I wanted to pull it out.
The beep continued like an annoying ring in my ears, but with a rhythm that reminded me of
something.
Music.
I remembered music. I remembered a song—one I heard so long ago in a plac e that felt like
home, with a boy I know I loved, but could no longer see when I closed my eyes.
The constant beat of the beeps and the whooshing hum of the air pumping something
mechanical-sounding brought words to my mind; “Forever is no more a bitter end.”
As I opened my eyes, light f looded the ro om, creeping along the walls and f loor like t he
morning sun sweeping the grass in the early hours. It touched my toes, my ankles and flowed up over
my denim jeans and singlet top until, as I looked around me for the first time, the light illuminated
the leafy green trees and foliage-covered floor of a forest. I know this place…
The lake! This is the lake.
And that perfect song was the whisper on the breeze.
“David?” I remember him now.
Eternity.
My love.
The red rose.
The silky voice.
He came back to me? He was here. He was actually here.
It was like I could see him so clearly—sit ting just across the way, crouching over a blue
guitar and singing that song; his voice so heartbreakingly beautiful.
I remember this. I remember David.
The beeps—they picked up, but the song trailed behind—lost under the speed of the sound.
“David?“ I called out to him.
But he couldn’t hear me either, and he didn’t see me. Or perhaps he didn’t want to see me.
Perhaps he was still hurt because I chose Mike.
“Oh, David. I wish I could take it all back. I love you so much.” My voice reverberated, like
speaking into a small, tin container. Tears touched my face again; unfamiliar friends in a home they
once knew well. “I’m sorry.”
When the pain of losing him hit me all over again, my newly found knees buckled and I hit
the ground—face first; the smell of fresh dirt under my lips was strangely familiar, yet so vague, like
wheat or hot grass. David’s song echoed in the space around me and faded out as the beeps sped up,
and finally, drowned out the beauty.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a stiff-sounding man said.
My body became stiff too, and tight; I could feel gravity again, but couldn’t use it.
“Once the tube is out, she may just slip away,” he added.
“But—” Someone burst into tears; Vicki, I think. “She looks perfectly fine. How can s he be
brain-dead?”
What? Brain-dead? I’m not brain-dead. I struggled against my confines—trying to get up—
stuck face-first on the black, hard ground.
What do they mean by brain-dead?
“The tests were conclusive, ma’am. I’m sorry. In some cases the patient can stay in a coma,
on life-support, for years to come. In your daughter’s case, it would be best for her if she didn’t.”
Wait! No. I’m right here, I yelled. I’m not brain-dead. Vicki. Dad. Please?
“Wait!” Vicki said. “Just…don’t take it out yet. Pease? Give her more time.”
“Her father signed the forms, Mrs. Thompson. I’m sorry.”
“Greg?” her voice broke. “Greg, please?”
“Vicki. Just stop,” Mike said. “Please. She’s gone. Don’t make her suffer any more than she
already has.”
Mike? No. No.
Warm tears sprung from my eyes and fell from my chin to th e emptiness of the pitch-black
eternity. Don’t give up on me, Mike. I’m not brain-dead. I’m still in here. They got it wrong.<
br />
“Hand me that tray, please?” t he stiff-sounding man said to someone, and in my world I
clutched my chin as the feel of muggy, sweaty hands touched it.
Get it off. Stop touching me!
I couldn’t move. I could feel my body, my arms, my face, but couldn’t get his sticky hands of
me.
Please? Don’t let me go yet. Don’t give up on me.
David! Where’s David? He could read my mi nd, tell them I’m still here, help me, rescue
me—but he left me, gave me away, and he never even came to save me from...
A tugging sensation snaked up my t hroat and grated my insides like the ribbed curve of a
straw. My l ungs felt t ight, strained—like air was being drawn in through a thick cl oth over my
mouth. The room went silent for a breath, then, the beeps sounded in one dull, flat pitch.
“Greg, please?” Vicki whispered. “Please don’t let her go.”
The anguished sobs of t hose around me flooded my hear t. Don’t cry for me; I’m not dead.
Please? I focused on the beeps—willed them to move—but they rang out in monotone.
“Fight, Ara,” a smooth voice hummed, the melody of his tone dark with sorrow. Cool lips
brushed softly over my eyes...
Wait, cool? David?! Is that David—is he really here?
The air. It was so thick, I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t catch a gasp to scream out to him, to
David. He was there. Right there beside me.
David, stay. Don’t go—I need to see you. Please, please stay.
But nothing had changed. They couldn’ t hear me. David couldn’ t hear me—or he was n’t
listening.
“The ruby slippers,” my imagination suggested, appearing beside me in the darkness, locked
behind the mirrored glass she had always lived beyond.
Hope filled my world for a beat of my heart. Maybe if I could find them, they could get me
home. They were my only hope. I willed them to appear—closed my eyes and drew two crossed
lines over my chest with my finger as I wished with all my heart.
A flash of colour brightened the shadowy world behind me; I spun around and, in the empty
space, seeming so far away, the slippers appeared. But as I took a step toward them, they drifted, like
a bird on a wave of the ocean, slowly away from me.
No. No, come back. I chased them; forcing myself to run faster. Please wait?
The beeps rang out behind me; flat and l ifeless. Only s econds had passed, but i t felt li ke