They are the home of death and regrets that missed their slots, not somewhere I would ever choose to visit, let alone stay. The sterilised stench of the place makes me want to gag. The sound of a machine breaks into my consciousness, stealing my last few fragments of hope and leaving me with nothing except the unwanted knowledge that I am in a hospital. One memory refuses to comply, fighting its way to the surface, but I don’t want to believe it. When the memories are as complete as I can manage, I bury them until they are quiet enough inside my head to allow me to think, to feel, to try to make sense of it all. I repeat these three things in my head, holding on to them tightly, as though they might save me, but I’m mindful that some part of the story is lost, the last few pages ripped out.
I can’t recall where this is or how I got here, but I know who I am: My name is Amber Reynolds I am thirty-five years old I’m married to Paul. Panic spreads through me like a blast of icy-cold air. My limbs ache and, I’m so tired I don’t want to open my eyes – until I remember that I can’t. I am only ever me and I am here, where I already know I do not wish to be. I try to hold on, try to be someone and stay somewhere I am not, but I can’t. A sheet is pulled over my body, it smells unfamiliar and I consider the possibility that I’m in a hotel. It feels heavier than it used to, as though it is weighing me down. I sense the light behind my eyelids and my attention is drawn to the platinum band on my finger. For now, for just a second longer, I’m enjoying the self-medicated delusion that permits me to imagine that I could be anyone, I could be anywhere, I could be loved.
A moment of intense pleasure or pain, before your senses reboot and inform you who and where and what you are. Those precious few semi-conscious seconds before you open your eyes, when you catch yourself believing that your dreams might just be your reality. I’ve always delighted in the free fall between sleep and wakefulness.
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