Welcome to Chapter 15.
Something a little special for you this week. Not only is it an exciting chapter, but because of the way it flows, I couldn't find a place to logically split it into two parts as per my self-imposed size limit. So this week, you are getting a double feature... Enjoy.
A quick thanks to my amazing editing team. Your grasp of the English language allows these stories to be what they are. Thank you to the rest of you for your comments, feedback, and high ratings for each chapter as well.
Now, on with the story.
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I looked around the generically decorated room. The walls were painted white on the top half, and that sickly shade of green that can only be found in hospitals and
very
old schoolhouses colored the bottom. I was sitting in one of those chairs that could only ever be found in a hospital. A soft, plastic cushion and a curved, ergonomic wooden armrest. But looking around, there was no bed. Just a tv bolted to one wall, currently off, and vague, nondescript stock art screwed in cheap wooden frames to two of the three walls in my eye line.
This was not the sort of hospital you came to heal after, say, a car crash. It was the sort you came to deal with major brain damage, like the sort that could happen after, say, a car crash. The sort there was little hope of ever recovering from. I ran my hand over my leg, feeling the pot marks and striations under the skin from the countless surgeries to repair it after the crash. I silently willed the useless appendage to move, to twitch, to drum out the beat to a Bryan Adams song with my still painful foot. Something,
anything,
to regain something of the life I had lost on the night of the crash.
My memory was fuzzy. I remembered some things so vividly that it felt like they had happened mere minutes ago. Waking up with Jimmy and the Doctors in the hospital, being told that Moe was gone, having the full extent of my
massive
injuries laid out to me in excruciating detail, and then being told that the memory centers in my brain had been shredded by the bone fragments from my skull. That I would never reliably be able to remember anything for the rest of my life. The inability to ever live independently again had seemed more like a vague concept when they had said it, but all these months later, I was still struggling to come to terms with its reality.
Then weeks of surgeries. Vain attempts to repair my shattered legs and broken back. My back had been first and had offered the cruelest glimmer of hope by being a total success. That hope was destroyed when the operations on my legs proved to be abject failures. Not only was neither leg capable of supporting my weight, one of them would never be able to be moved under its own power again. More than that, and in a sadistic twist of fate, the success of my back surgery meant that the pain that the damaged nerves had blocked out was now announcing itself with a vengeance. I was on enough pain medication to sedate a fully grown rhino, and that barely took the edge off.
But it was the brain damage that had ended any prospect of a normal life. Again, the early optimism brought about by my ability to remember things from before the crash, things like the events of that night in the pub and who Jimmy was, suddenly came crashing down as it became clear that my short-term memory was just incapable of working properly. Events happening to me at any one time had less than a twenty percent chance of being remembered a few hours later. Some things stuck, most things didn't. There were memories in my head of someone not only halfway through a conversation but actually mid-sentence, and me having no idea what they had been talking about.
Then there were the mood swings. Aggressive, violent, seething bouts of uncontrollable anger would just appear out of nowhere. There was a gorgeous blonde nurse in the hospital. I didn't remember her name, but she was always nice to me. One day, for reasons that completely eluded me, then and now, I hit her. I had hit her hard. There was just something about that look of pity and sympathy in her eyes that I wanted gone, so I used my balled-up fist to get rid of it. I didn't mean to, it certainly wasn't intentional. I had never considered myself a violent man before the accident, but now I was constantly aware of the eggshells people walked on around me. Both them, and I, knew that a single wrong look, or a single careless tone, even if it was friendly and humorous, could result in a horrifically violent outburst. I had become very aware of my own loss of control, and that, above all other things, had thrown me into the darkest pits of depressing despair. I never saw the cute blonde nurse again that I know of, and found myself in restraints for a lot of my hazy memories after that.
I didn't even know if I ever had the chance to apologize.
It wasn't long after that, that I found myself here. There was a vague, loose sense of the passage of time, but with no recollection of anything at all for days, sometimes weeks on end, I could never be entirely sure how long had passed since the last thing I could remember. I had grown into the habit of compulsively asking the date and time whenever I could, on the off chance that I would remember it later or at least be able to gauge how long it had been since my last memory.
It wasn't like I was in a drooling stupor between moments of lucidity, at least not according to the few things I could remember my doctors saying. I was always cognizant and aware. I was always coherent and cooperative, I always worked hard in my therapies, and always seemed genuinely motivated to work toward my recovery. I just had no memory of vast periods of time before that session. And with no memory, no therapies could take hold, and no progress could be made.
Apparently, it had been discovered that repeating the same lessons over and over and over again, sometimes for weeks on end, would force it into my long-term memory. It was a technique that promised some results, but the time it would take to see those achievements was prolonged proportionately with the amount of time it took to repeat each one before I remembered it.
Beneath it all, however, were the dreams. And just like dreams, holding onto them was like trying to pin down the tide or hold smoke in your hand. As soon as I felt like I had a grip on the memory, it would be gone.
There were flashes. Flashes of a girl with fiery red hair, of an extraordinary sense of happiness and belonging whenever she would visit my dreams. Another girl with strawberry blonde hair, the feeling of calm and comfort she brought with her. A big man with a tattoo peeking above his collar. Another with an Italian accent. Dreams of places I had never been and would never go. The sun-drenched city, the vaulted halls of some massive church-looking building, and that city. The city of my dreams, bathed in soft light and filled with towering skyscrapers, and that feeling of...
home
... whenever I walked its streets. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hold onto
any
image or
any
memory from those dreams for more than a few hazy moments. But they were always there, like a story playing out just beneath the surface.
But then there were instincts; those were the things that scared me the most. The urge to
stretch and flex
my mind in much the same way I was flexing my fingers against the arm of the chair. The same as the urge to move my ruined leg. The instinct to somehow connect my mind to another... as if that were even possible. The urge to speak to someone I didn't know, an aged old man wearing a butler's costume and a constant look of amusement. The feeling of utter, indescribably hostility I would feel every time the Doctor came to talk to me. I knew he was trying to help, I knew I needed to listen to him and cooperate if I ever had any chance of getting better. But there was something inside me that screamed "
Danger!"
whenever I saw him. It wasn't a fear response. I wasn't afraid of him, just violently,
savagely
