Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis

What images do I see through this blinding light? Splayed fingers offer no comfort against the pure infinite whiteness that surrounds me. I close my eyes, unable to bear the brightness any longer.

In the darkness of my mind the light still glows but fades over time, changing from red to green to yellow before finally blackness and darkness take over.

There are no sounds and for a moment I wonder if I have been rendered deaf by some unknown force, but then click my fingers next to my ear and hear their hard snapping sound.

The effort of lifting my hand to my ear leaves me exhausted and so I let my arm fall to my side once again.

Listening to my breath, I hear it pulsing, throbbing, lulling me into sleep. My eyelids flicker, heavy and burdensome.

Do not sleep.

The thought alights in my mind like a flame and just as suddenly as it appears, my exhaustion snuffs it out. Yet, its essence lingers, like smoke rising upwards.

Echoing footsteps. Whose? I do not know. Are they retreating or approaching?

What do you remember?

The question forms in my mind and for a moment I stare at it, as if it is some alien parasite that has burrowed its way into my subconscious. Is this thought mine? Or has it been planted there?

Remember.

The word commands me. Yet, its voice soft and lilting, and for a moment I have an image of curtains billowing, white and gauzelike, sunlight pouring through as they flutter in the breeze.

What lies beyond them? And whose voice is commanding me?

Is it mine?

Opening my mouth to speak only silence spills forth. Have I been struck mute? How? Did I ever know how to speak in the first place? I scream as loud as I can, but again there is nothing but silence.

More footsteps now. Solid and dependable. Voices gather, droning like bees about a flower. Am I the flower? Laughter, like discordant notes from a piano falls from my mouth. There was a piano somewhere that I used to play. Every Friday afternoon after school. Bartok. Bach. Beethoven. We are back to Bs again. Only these are different. They do not buzz, they play. Count me in. 1-2-3-4.

My fingers sink into darkness. There are no natural keys, only sharps and flats.

Can you hear me?

There is a scent I recognize. On skin. A tweed sportscoat. Flecked with grey. The glint of a cufflink, and the brown strap belonging to a watch.

What time is it?

Light still surrounds me. Real or fake, I do not know.

The watch lay on the bedside locker. The sportscoat on the back of a chair. On the wall behind, a pastel drawing of a laneway in winter. Blues and whites. Signed, ‘Fongonta, 1932’.

Warmth and laughter. Silken blond hair. Must be kept secret. No-one can know. More laughter.

Focus.

Think, I tell myself, think about how you got here.

Where is here? Where am I?

The words feel calm and rational, yet there is a flutter of panic within my stomach, like a butterfly breaking its way out of its cocoon after days of slumber. Metamorphosis.

Anything else?

Again, the voice speaks, but brushing it aside, I think, is that what is happening? Am I changing? Have I already changed?

Gathering all my strength, I lift my hand to my face and touch the soft skin that lies there. It feels warm to the touch, and I can feel my age within it. The years that have come and gone, fallen away behind me as I move forward. Always forwards, never backwards.

Like a blindman, I run my fingers over the rest of my face, feeling the bumps and crevices that form my features. The pointed sharpness of my nose, the fullness of my bottom lip so at odds with its brother, who like a razor, rests above. My eyes feel hollow and under used and for a moment fear blossoms alongside panic, as the butterfly stepping out of its cocoons alights upon a flower whose petals are unknown and black with color.

Are these my features, I think. My face?

Who am I?

What am I?

Again, exhaustion takes hold, as my eyelids close, and my hands fall to my side.

And now the sound of children singing, their eager bright voices almost enough to make me weep.

‘Awake from your slumber,

Awake from your sleep,

What are the promises you failed to keep?’

What promises? I want to ask them, but their voices are gone, and the tears that threatened to fall retreat back behind my eyelids. Swallowing them, I feel how they trickle down into the very pit of my stomach, where, like dew, they rest upon that blackened rose that once was my heart.

You know who you are.

Do I?

Don’t be afraid.

What if I am?

Don’t be.

Hesitation grips my arm, trying to pull me away from this abyss. This flight I will take, out and upwards, sailing skywards.

You know who you are.

The words come upon the wind, white and hopeful against the darkness behind my eyes. Before dropping into the chasm below, echoing out to me as they fall further and further.

Rising, I take a step forward, as my breath rolls within my body, like the smoke and steam of some great engine propelling me forward.

The droning stops. Expectation fills the air.

Below is darkness, everlasting nothingness that hums with the words from moments before.

What if I were to follow them?

Where would they take me?

Something pulls at my arms, urging me back, and away from the edge. With the last of my strength, I pull free from their grasp and with a peace that I have not felt before, fall forward.

The shy rapid flutter of butterfly wings erupts within me.

Opening, opening, opening.

I take flight.

And in that final rush of ecstasy, I open my eyes.