CIRCE
Shattered, marbled, star-faced glass surrounds me. As each one lays around me in a thousand improper pieces, they wait to be pieced back together. It’s like the most treacherous, and trickiest jigsaw puzzle imaginable. I feel broken. I remember when everything was solid, when my life felt contained, and held promise.
“Miss? Can you hear me?” I feel as if I’m drowning in a pool of mud. It’s thick and gooey. It won’t allow me to budge. My tongue is thick, my mind is hazy, and all of it leaves me unable to form a coherent answer. Even though I feel the motions of others tugging, pulling, and shoving me as they scurry to free us from our bonds, I feel far away and disconnected.
“She’s in and out of consciousness,” someone says.
“Where’s that stretcher?” Another yells franticly into the deafness of the night.
This shouldn’t be happening to me.
This can’t be happening again.
Life isn’t that cruel to do this to me twice, is it? The end result will be just as catastrophic as it was before, and I’m scared by that.
Once, there was this shattering effect on my life, and at that time, I had the courage to set myself on the only path available. I picked my ass up, without bitching about what shouldn’t have happened, and I learned how to pass grief by. It was like watching headlights in the rearview mirror as a car slips into the night. This time, though, I don’t think I can keep it together.
“Miss, I’m going to help you out of there.” A kind and gentle voice breaks through the murkiness. Engaging my attention for a split second, they say, “I need you to stay awake for me.”
Awake? It’s too hard. Staying awake seems impossible. I want to sleep. I want to let it all fall to the Fates. I want to free myself of the repetitive pain that I know awaits me. There’d be no more cares about who I make happy, who I’ve disappointed, and no more worries about...well, just no more worries.
After promising myself I’d never be here again, I struggle with the end result. Feeling weak and unable to deal with the pain, I’m crushed that I may have no choice.
Muffled voices speak in somber tones, conversing around me. Vaguely, I make out snippets of, “Is she,” or “Is he?” And even though they’re just small questions that are denuded of inflection, they convey an awful weight. They must be accustomed to this carnage, this Death. Boy, did I notice him. Feeling the exact moment when Death crept across my soul, he was close. Close enough that laying out my hand, I’d feel him brush up against my skin. His decrepit grin was disturbing, and that sickly smile passed his features as he took someone from my life. Even though I had no idea who he’d taken, I still felt his cool lips touch my cheek.
Death had kissed me on the way by.
My body doesn’t react to the cool of the night, even as it kisses my bare and bleeding skin. I don’t feel the warmth of helping hands touching me as they work to free me from the tangled mess either. Disengaging myself, it’s like I’m a spectator in the peripheral, where everything is detached and disconnected.
As time passes in a blink, or what feels like a blink, I drift away.
I’m wishing to vanish.
~~~~~~~~~
Awaking to the rushing of doctors, nurses, various assistants and interns, it was strangely unsettling. My mind compartmentalized them into the background. They’re there, but in their own dark world. Bouncing and popping into my clouded sight, they dissipate like an unsettled dream. When opening my eyes after a restless sleep, this feels just the same. It’s disconnected, discombobulated, and rough.
Beside my head is a woman in deep pink scrubs leaning over me. She’s so close, I feel her breath on my face.
“Jackson, I need you on this side.”
The lovely lady pulls at my eyelids, flashing a light, and gently checks my head with her fingers. Pushing and poking, it feels like lightning striking my brain. Every nerve in my head screams. The tang of copper coats my tongue, and my lips feel like they’re coated in flour. My nose is scratchy, and I so badly want to ask for a Kleenex. I’m afraid, though, that my brains will spill out.
“Miss Maco? I’m Callie Ethan, your surgeon. You can call me Dr. Callie. You have a mighty large contusion on your forehead, a broken wrist, and three broken ribs. Two of them are sticking out of your shirt, love. I believe you have extensive internal bleeding.” Tugging lightly on a few cables being suctioned to my chest before talking again, she smiles down at me. “Is there anything you can tell me that will help to better assess you?”
Opening my mouth to speak, my head screams to halt all motions. Got it, body. Point taken. No speaking.
“Do you have any allergies, or anything we should know about, honey? Blink twice if you do.” When she says ‘honey’ comes out smooth, with a southern drawl, like ‘hawnnie.’
I blink once.
“Okay, Circe. Can I call you Circe?” She smiles, knowing that I won’t answer her question. “We’ll be taking you to surgery in a few minutes. Don’t you worry none, sweetie. You’re in good hands.” Her soft smile makes me feel comfortable, even though my instincts scream to run like hell.
“You’ll wake feeling refreshed, and happier than a bug in June.”
Seeing her inject a liquid into the IV that rests in my hand, I feel a cool rush.
In less than to the count of three, I’m out.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
Coming to, the machines constant chatter in the background is a soft, consistent hum. It’s almost melodic. I slowly open my scratchy eyes and take in the space. There’s a set of stark white curtains, a clock on the wall that says three-fifteen, and other than my prone body, there’s not much else. Everything aches, though, so I bet that’s a good sign.
As the door to the room opens, allowing the sounds from the outside in, I joyously anticipate the visitor I want to see. I only need to know that they’re alive. As my heart rate increases with giddy joy, the curtains are thrown open wide. In her bright outfit, the lovely southern surgeon walks in. Leaning over the edge of my bed and smiles.
“Well, sugar. Glad you’re back.”
Holding the petite flashlight in her hand, she sweeps it back and forth across my eyes, then flicks her fingers. She’s smiling and humming to her own musical tune as she removes her stethoscope from around her shoulders and begins to count beats. When she’s done, she asks, “How you feelin?” as she absently goes over my damages.
I run my tongue along my teeth. My mouth still feels like it’s stuck with road tar. My eyes are weighty, and I feel like there are small cars attached to each lid.
As I say nothing, she continues to speak, as if I gave her the answer she required. “I won’t keep you. We’ll be moving you from here to a new room in a bit. And don’t worry none, Circe. We’ll take good care of you.”
Checking the readings on the incessant beeping machine, she pushes a few buttons to silence it. Turning back to me, she pulls the blanket back to look at my chest, lifting the bandages. “We fixed up your ribs, your wrist, the punctured lung, and the hole in your spleen. Plus, I sutured that nasty gouge on your head. After a little plastic surgery, you should be scar free.”
Now I understand why it’s so difficult to breathe; I have a punctured lung. Great.
Flicking a few switches, checking the wrappings on my incisions, Dr. Callie tucks the blanket up tight again.
“I’ll check on you again in a bit, darlin’, so get some rest.” Smiling, she wanders away, leaving me curious. Where are the others? I want to ask. I want to know. But my body is sore, my mind is clouded, and my soul is exhausted.
As I’m dragged back to lala-land almost immediately, I find myself closing my eyes and forgetting what’s so important. Memories blur, bringing pieces together haphazardly, reminding me of how fate decides our path without our intervention. I drift off, unable to stop it.
My life was going in a better direction, right?
Or was this just an intermission dragging me toward the evil plot maker’s finale?