Linda Vista Hospital…In Memoriam
By
Martin Reaves
Beyond
the door, in shadowed hallways where paint slowly peels itself from the walls
to expose what never should have been hidden, dust motes almost form something
recognizable as shredded curtains stir in the absence of breeze. On the memory of my skin sensations prickle,
invisible breath stirs unseen hairs on my neck, calling forth phantom
gooseflesh.
They
are in the hall, at the far end, their heavy footfalls and artificial light
shattering the calm.
Abandoned
here in a time that was but is no more; once comatose, then awake, then away
again. And later the straps—restraints,
they said, for my own good, for my safety and the safety of others. But that was then, long before the doctors
fled and the others begin to scream their pain into the plaster walls and
ceilings, those screams turning to pathetic cries of grief and finally to
pleading whimpers that someone, anyone, if there’s a God, please let it
end.
For
some it did end, a flame extinguished, a final exhale, release. And for some of us that flame sputtered but
did not die; we found ourselves suspended in the space between breaths, just
past some cruel tipping point, over-balanced and falling but never
landing. Lodged between a life of horror
and a deferred eternity.
Out
there…whispers in the dark, calling for reply, like a hesitant liturgy, their call
at once hoping for and fearing response…the probing voices, scuffling shoes,
jittery bouncing lights stabbing into darkened rooms. Their queries shatter the silence, becoming
more insistent with each step: Is someone
here? Anyone? Can you hear us? Please make yourself known if you can hear
us. Two doors down now, shambling
closer, their ragged breath propelling a cushion of distress ahead of them,
that terror they push forward like a desperate barrier that will keep them safe
or somehow prepare them if their entreaties should be answered…closer now,
nervous giggles jagging on the air.
In
the dusty murk, long ago hidden away from hurting hands, away from dirty needles
and barbed straps, away from the taunting scalpels, safe in my small shadowed corner—apart
from it all, I crouch, but no longer cower.
Huddled into myself, I wait.
They
are closer now, closer to my space, my sanctuary. One door away, the dread clear in their childish
words of bravado, Come out, come out,
wherever you are.
I
will not disappoint them.
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