Stuck In The Middle

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I cannot. I hear, but all noise comes from eons away, except for the hiss of my breath. I wonder where I am but cannot tell. I think about my arms, my legs, my body, but I feel none of them. All I know is my mind.

I wake and I am in a hospital room. A white, white room in a white, white bed. All is quiet. I get out of bed in my white, white hospital gown and go to the door. I am at the end of an empty corridor. And as I watch, someone, a man with long black hair, wearing black jeans and black leather jacket comes out of a side room into the corridor and walks away from me in black leather boots. I shout to him, but my voice is silent. I go after him. He continues on his way, so I run, but no matter how fast I run, his gentle loping walk is faster. I cannot catch him.

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I do not try. I listen to the hiss of my breath. It is regular, mechanical. I try to hold my breath, but still I breathe, and I realise something is breathing for me. I can hear other noises too. They have moved oh so slightly closer, only millennia away now.

I wake. I am standing in a corridor outside my hospital room. The man with the long black hair, is walking away from me with his long loping strides. I shout to him but the whiteness steals the noise of my voice away. I try to run to catch up to his retreating back. He ignores me and turns a corner. When I reach the corner, I see him slip through a door, just out of reach. I hurl myself at the door, but when I do, it opens onto a meadow and I see not the man, but a crib with a baby. The grass reaches my knees and I realise that I am a child height. I walk towards the crib and the baby looks up at me, kicking it’s chubby, pink legs. I realise it is my sister. I look down; the daisies are big, their stems inviting me to make a daisy chain for my sister. I sit, but as I pick the first daisy, it withers, dies, turns to dust. I look up. The crib is now a few feet away, though neither I nor it have moved. I follow the crib and try again. This time I manage to pick two daisies, split the stem of the first, thread the second stem through before they wither, die, turn to dust.

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I listen to the hiss of my breath. No, I listen to the hiss of the machine that is breathing for me. And I listen inside to the beat of my heart. Other noises are still light years away.

I wake. I am standing in a corridor watching the now familiar back of the man with the long black hair who is walking away from me. I do not run for I know that I will not catch him, not matter how fast I run. Instead I follow him down the corridor, round the corner, and through the door. I am on a beach, the hot white sand warming my cold feet after the cold white floor tiles in the hospital. I can see the sea, so I walk towards it, to paddle like I did as a child, but as I reach the foam, the sea ebbs and my feet remain dry.

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I listen to the hiss of the machine that breathes for me, I listen to the beat of my heart. I still cannot feel my arms, my legs, but the fact that I can hear my beating heart means I do have a body somewhere. I listen to the other noises, and I realise one of those noises keeps time with the beat of my heart.

I wake. I look down the corridor at the man, knowing I must follow. I walk down the corridor, round the corner, out the door. I find myself in a room with my grandmother, though I only know it is her because I recognise the birth mark on her arm. This is a much younger woman than the one I know. She smiles at me, takes my hand, and we walk towards the Christmas tree. I look up in wonder at the baubles and lights. My grandmother says I am to put the fairy on the top, but when she lifts me, I go up, up, up. But the top is still too far away.

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I listen for the breath of the machine, I listen for the beat of my heart, I listen for the ping that keeps time with the beat of my heart. And I start to hear that within the other noise, there are voices. 

I wake and follow the man as before. We go into a classroom. The man turns, and as he turns, his hair becomes auburn, his black jeans and jacket become a blue and white dress, and his black boots become a cheap pair of heals. He has become Miss Marshall, my primary school teacher. She stares at me and asks where my homework is. I do not have homework. All I have is this hospital gown. All the other pupils, all the children I have ever known, they all turn to look at me, to laugh at me because I have no homework, I only have a hospital gown.

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I listen to the machines, to my heart. And I listen to the voices. I think I recognise the voice of my mother. And I hear an unknown voice. I think he says, “No change.”

I wake and follow the man through the door and out onto a crowded street. I’m stood in the middle of a road, traffic rushing either side of me. I hear curses from the drivers, but they do not stop to let me cross. I do not know what else to do, so I close my eyes and I step out into the unknown.

I wake and I decide to try and open my eyes. I forget about the breathing machine, the sound of my heart, and focus on my eyelids. I pull with all my might and I can feel as my eyelashes flutter on my cheeks. “Mum, she’s trying to open her eyes.” It is the voice of my sister, and I eventually hoist my eyes open and see vague shapes above me.

I wake and I follow the man. When I go through the door, I am in an old, cluttered room. The man is at the other end of the room, and as I watch, he begins to climb a flight of stairs. I follow. The flight of stairs is wide, straight, well lit. I put my hand on the substantial bannister and begin to follow. When I reach the top of the stairs, I turn to go up the next flight. And the next, but each flight is less than the last, each flight is a little less wide, a little bit steeper. Eventually I come to a winding staircase and I know I must go onwards. As I climb, the steps begin to crumble. There is little light, so I must feel my way up. But it doesn’t end.

I wake and I open my eyes. Someone comes to stand over me. It is my mother. But when she sits, I cannot turn my head to see her. I can feel it as she takes my hand and holds it. I can feel someone else take my other hand. From the feel of it, the large calloused hands, a builder’s hands, I know it must be my father. But when they squeeze my hand, I cannot respond. I hear them talk to me, telling me what has been happening, though I don’t know what happened to me. I catch some of what they are saying, but not all of it. Others talk too, strangers. They talk to my mother and my father about me, though they are not close, and I cannot understand what it is they say.

I wake and I follow the man. When we go through the doors, I find myself at a circus. The horses go round and round, the bareback riders standing and somersaulting effortlessly on their backs. I watch the trapeze artists as they catch each other, except one of them misses and falls to earth. But just before they make contact with the hard earth, they go into a forward roll, and when they come out of it, they have become a clown. The clown’s clothes are all in black and white. The mouth has no lips, just sharp teeth, and he has no eyes, just deep, black pits where his eyes should be. And as he walks towards me, growing with each step, he looks at me, searches my soul with his non-existent eyes.

I wake and open my eyes. My sister leans over and kisses my cheek. I can see quite clearly the tears in her eyes but cannot move. I can feel both her and my mother as they hold my hands, as they squeeze my hands. I want to squeeze back, but I cannot. I hear my father’s voice as he talks to the doctors. They are closer now. No change, they say.

I wake and when I follow the man through the door, I find myself in a boat out on a lake. It is calm, with just the sound of the water gently lapping against the boat. I look up to the sky, and I can see clouds beginning to roll in from the horizon. A storm is coming. I look around. There, a long way away, I can see a jetty where the man waits. But how to get there? I have no oars. All I can do is watch as the storm comes closer.

I wake and open my eyes. I hear my father’s voice; I hear my mother’s tears. They talk to the doctors, so close now. They talk as if I am not there. They say I have not improved. They say I will not improve.

I wake and when I follow the man, I find myself on a mountain track. The path I am on is narrow. On the left there is a high wall of rock. On my right, there is a sheer drop, so deep I cannot see the bottom through the clouds. The man walks forward with his easy gait and I try to follow. I know somehow that I must not lose sight of him. I can only keep on this road if I can see him. But it is not easy, and I keep missing my footing. I stumble and fall, and as the man turns, I lose my grip and go over the edge. The man watches as I tumble.

I wake and open my eyes. My father, a big strong man, looks at me with such sadness as if his heart would break. I see the tears he would not shed if he thought I could see them. The doctors are in the background, though I do not hear what they say. My father leans down to kiss me, and as he does so, a tear falls into my eye. I cannot cry my own tears, but I have his.

I wake to find myself in a large church. The man precedes me, and I follow like a disciple. As he enters, the man’s black jeans and black jacket become white robes, his boots become sandals. He goes down the aisle, I follow. At the altar he looks up at the cross before he turns right. I look up at the cross, at the face of the carving of our Lord. I turn right to follow the man into a transept. There frescoes are painted on the walls. The face of our Lord on these frescoes matches the face of our Lord on the cross. The man turns and I see that it is the same as the face of our Lord.

I wake and open my eyes. None of my family are there, only the doctors. Tomorrow, they are saying, we will switch off tomorrow when the family has said goodbye. They leave. All but one. He leans over me and looks me in the eyes, shining a light into each one in turn.  It is the man, the one with the long black hair, the black jeans, and although he is in a white coat now, I know there’s a black leather jacket in his locker.

“Where are you,” he asks. I know you’re in there somewhere. Just give me a sign. Let me help you.”

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and look down to where I hold a daisy chain.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and onto a beach. I run in bare feet on the hot sand until I reach the sea, and there I paddle in the waves.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and into my grandmother’s living room. She hoists me up and I put the fairy on the tree.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and into a schoolroom. When the teacher asks for my homework, I look down at the book in my hand.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and as I wait in the middle of the road, traffic lights appear, turn red in my favour.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and up the stairs and out onto the top of the building to view the world.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and the clown trips over his boots, is caught in a wheelbarrow by another clown and taken away.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and into the boat. I look at the sky, I look towards the man on the jetty, and I look down to the oars in the bottom of the boat.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and onto the mountain pass. When I fall, he turns, reaches out with his impossibly long left arm and catches me.

I wake and I follow the man. I follow him out the door and into the church. I pay homage to our Lord at the altar before moving into the transept. There the man with the face of our Lord reaches out his right hand to take mine.

I wake, but I do not open my eyes. I do not have the energy to spare. I ignore the hiss of the machine that breathes. I ignore the sound of my heart and its echo in the room. I can feel my fathers calloused hands stroking my hair. I feel two hands, my mothers and my sisters, holding mine, but which is which? I know what I must do. My mother would let me go because she loves me. My sister would want to keep me with her for that same love. I’ll get one chance at this. I think of the man on the mountain reaching down with his left hand as I fall. I think of our Lord reaching out with his right hand in the church. Give me a sign. Let me help you. And with every last ounce of strength I have, I choose and I squeeze a hand.