The Heaviness of Waiting

I open my eyes as I feel the sunlight coming through my apartment window and struggle to take a couple of deep breaths. I can already feel the crushing weight against me once more as I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s 10:23 a.m. I release a heavy sigh and grind my teeth in aggravation. Why am I not used to this already? Why does it feel the same every time? I think to myself, trying my hardest to roll over so I can at least face the window. I feel so useless with this constant weight on me; all I want is to be like everyone else. I try to lift my head from the pillow to get a better view from the window but give up immediately. “It’s no use,” I murmur to myself, continuing with my harsh breaths. Gazing out the window, I’m somewhat comforted by the sights and sounds of life. I see children in the field below flying kites and playing ball, all running around carefree and having the time of their lives. Another group at the skate park is jumping around, soaring through the air like it’s nothing. Looking to the street I see adults walking the sidewalks, lifting one foot after the other in a rush to get to where they need to be. I close my eyes tight and clench my jaw tighter. Even that doesn’t stop the haunting. I hear people hurrying up and down the apartment stairs with ease, not giving it two thoughts. Unable to stand it anymore I stop letting myself focus on the signs around me, all these people taking it all for granted. They don’t know what it’s like laying here with the choking weight of the world on my shoulders...and arms...and legs...and hands...and everything, not being able to do anything myself. Letting these thoughts run through my head my gaze wanders around my room; it’s been the same ever since I’ve been here. There’s of course the dusty nightstand next to my bed and the old clock with it’s rhythmic ticking. Continuing around the room, I look at the dresser filled with clothes I’ve never touched. Staring at the vanity across from my bed and the makeup cluttering the top of it I contemplate why it’s even there. It's not like I’ve ever touched it or will ever be able to. Not letting myself think too much about it, I look to my bookshelf that holds the same old books it always has. Wondering what the stories hold, I glance around at the bare, white walls and fit my gaze to the ceiling. 

I can’t remember anything before this. I don’t remember when I was able to roam free, just like everyone else. In fact, this is all I remember. My brow furrows in confusion. Why can’t I remember? I know I must have had a life before this, there had to be something! My entire childhood is a blur, everything is a blur. I’ve been stuck in this room struggling to even breathe with the effect of gravity being so much greater on me for years. It’s as if my entire life before this was just erased. I don’t remember anything before I met the man in the white suit. With these thoughts running through my head, I mindlessly count the webs on my ceiling and let time run away from me. 

My door swings open and I slowly turn my head to look at the man in the white suit. He’s never told me his name, but he comes once a day. He looks me over with an odd look on his face, almost as if he’s not seeing as another person, but something he created. I blink, shoving the thoughts aside, and give him a weak smile. He walks closer and clears his throat.

“How are you feeling today?” He asks while he starts his daily checkup on me.

“Normal,” I say in the loudest voice I can muster, which is just a whisper. 

He nods and hums while he writes on his papers, not seeming to have paid attention to my response. He pulls something out of his pocket and lifts the sleeve to my shirt ever so slightly. He wipes my upper arm with a cold alcohol wipe, and I wince when I feel a sharp prick. The spot is bandaged quickly, and he looks back down to me and smiles tensely. 

“Well, you're right, you are doing just normal,” he chuckles to himself standing straight. Watching him I feel like there’s something missing, something important I’ve forgotten. Something I need to remember, but can’t. He has a strange look in his eyes that I just can’t place. He’s obviously not sorry for my state but almost…proud? No, I think and once again shove my thoughts aside, giving him a weak chuckle.

“You know, it’s quite lonely here, with just me and my thoughts. Maybe you could-”

“You're not the only one I have to check on,” he interrupts me as he closes my blinds and walks towards my door. He turns, giving a small wave before walking out and shutting the door behind him. I sigh to myself hearing him lock it from the outside, knowing I'm once again alone until tomorrow. When I have company, I can almost forget the struggle to breathe, but now that the room is back to its deafening silence, I can hear every ragged breath I try to take. I close my eyes and hold my breath. I have to fix myself. The man in the white suit had been promising me that he has researchers figuring out how to solve this, but nothing has been done in the time I’ve been here. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. 

Slowly, I open my eyes with a newfound determination and look down at my own hands, crushed so tight against the mattress they’ve practically sunk in. “...I will be normal. I don’t care how long it takes,” I whisper as I use every ounce of energy I have to lift a finger off the bed. “Somehow, someday...”