loosening the knots
.
Scintilla ~ (n.) ~ a tiny, brilliant flash or spark;
a small thing; a barely-visible trace.
The following morning comes faster than I would have wanted it to come; a faint light waking me up just a few minutes after five. The next time when I look at the clock, it’s after six and my eyes are still wide open, mind on the verge of exhaustion.
6:08 a.m.
A groan escapes my lips I and sink deeper under the covers, then kick everything off the bed in frustration. I couldn’t sleep and all I had so far were two measly hours of interrupted, tortured rest. I felt my eyelids throb, feeling the sand between, the bags under them almost a separate being that craved for my undivided attention. It felt like someone had hit me during the sleep as if I was on a ring last night, fighting some invisible opponent that only I was aware of. Insomnia, my little destructive friend; never leaving my side for too long, always there in my darkest hour. My eyes wander to the digital numbers, and I swallow hard; feeling something slowly twist and break inside of me, the numbers screaming, taunting my brain.
6:28 a.m.
My eyelids stick together tighter than cement, every part of me begging for some release. I just wanted to have a small break from the world, from the overwhelming thoughts and the nightmares that never went away, no matter what I did. For a couple of hours not to hear the voices that were now quietly buzzing under my skull - thanks to him just gentle whispers for now - a simple background to my life. But the universe was not kind today and wouldn’t let me rest. My stare wonders aimlessly up to the ceiling, as I visualize the sofa at Charlie’s place, and how comfortable it felt; my thoughts returning to that mundane moment, just sitting next to him while he slept, feeling cozy, protected and at ease. Even the memory alone relaxes me and I yawn deeply, but instead of drifting into dreamland, I look for my phone and send a text. I don’t want to call him in case he’s still sleeping.
` You up?
Just a moment later, my phone buzzes.
` Yes, but one could argue.
What’s wrong?
` Just wanted to check up on you
` Oh, I’m doing better
` Are you sure?
` Yes. Why?
` No reason, going back to sleep now
The phone slips out of my hand before I can hear another buzz, my tired mind taking me deep under. But as with everything in my life, this state doesn’t last too long. Less than an hour later I am jolted back to attention, sitting up straight, my body soaked in sweat. I scream out confused, run fingers through my wet hair, and whip away the drops of sweat from the back of my neck while trying to catch my breath, heart racing like crazy. What woke me up? I think frantically but nothing comes to mind, just a faded image of an old clock and the sound of seven soft rings. That’s all. But that couldn’t be all, could it? To cause such a reaction?
I put my legs on the floor and feel the chilly air wrapping around them and making me shiver, the now wet clothes intensifying the effect. I stand up and throw on a thick gray hoodie on my barely covered body, feeling nauseous and weak as if I was about to throw up. Seven soft rings of a clock settled on an old wooden desk. I go to the bathroom but instead of doing anything, just sit on the edge of the old bathtub, staring numbly at the floor. What was going on with me? That dream - whatever it was - was throwing me off. Was it just because I was tired or was it something else? After a moment I stumble back and sit heavily on my bed, pushed by some invisible weight that I cannot see. I stare at my hands as if all the answers were there, just waiting for my sanity to return.
My head turns slowly and my eyes settle on the big picture frame standing on my cupboard. I stare at Morgan’s profile, and the dull light playing with her features as if trying to get her out of the darkness that was lurking outside the window, the heavy clouds seeming to hang above her head. I follow the lines of her body and focus on her stare, at what she sees behind that window, and it hits me. Possibilities. She still has possibilities and I don’t. We are both eaten by a kind of sickness but there is still hope for her. I put my hands up to my face as silent sobs erupt from my body, pulling at the lungs. Seven soft rings. I hear my phone as it starts to ring and jump up, suddenly returning to reality. My hands search the phone but instead push it away, the device falling to the ground. The ringing stops, only to start again just seconds later. I quickly grab it and pick up, not even checking the caller as if I was just rescued from a sinking ship.
I’ll be there today.
I blurt out before he even has a chance to say anything.
Did I already ask the question?
Familiar noises can be heard in the background and I know that he’s at work; this always hardworking, passionate man that for some unknown reasons to anyone, was still by my side. Maybe he was strange too.
No, but I am. I will be there in a couple of hours, just as soon as my rational thinking returns.
That can take a while.
I brush off the answer, too tired to even be sarcastic.
See you there.
________
I walk into the hospital, feeling the extra weight in my bag. It makes me uncomfortable just to know what’s in there. You’re overreacting, it’s not like she’s going to call the cops on you, not that anyone would care. All in all, you might just seem like some creep to her, that stalks you in quiet rooms while you read. I shake my head, just get it over with, and you will feel better. Sure, as if better was still in my dictionary. I walk past the hallways, searching for the right room after asking Joan for directions, and hearing a traditional speech about patient’s confidentiality, and the rules that needed to be followed and respected in an institution such as a hospital. I tried to look respectful while wanting to already be on my way; fingers twitching, my limbs dying to move. Five minutes later she finally let me go, graciously telling me the room number.
And now with my arms crossed, I stand in the doorway, indecisive. Wondering if I should just turn around and never think of this again, my gaze falling on the only patient currently in the room. She looks up and sees me, eyes staring wide, both surprised and judging. Her stern expression unblocks me and makes me feel right at home. Heavy attitude was what I was made for. I quickly move forward to the last bed by the window where she is half lying, half sitting; earplugs in the ears, music blasting away. I reach her and drop a medium envelope on the covers next to her. She puts one earplug out and takes it, moving it around and then staring at me, with an expression that clearly states “And what am I suppose to do with this, exactly?”
Just open it, they’re yours anyway.
Morgan’s eyebrows furrow, but she opens the envelope, curiosity winning over a stubborn nature. She slips out 4 rectangles of photographic paper, size 148x210 mm. She gazes with shocked eyes at her own face staring back at her, or more to the point, at her profile.
These are pictures... of me.
Yes.
I answer calmly.
But why would you take them? Are you some creepy stalker person?
Straight on.
No, it was in the spur of the moment thing.
I’m going to call the nurse on you and the security.
She states boldly and I believe her, sensing that it’s not just an empty threat. This one was maybe young but made very tough on the outside. What she felt on the inside, I was not aware of; however curious to find out.
If you want, then call them. I got time.
Morgan’s expression turns suspicious.
If you’re not some stalker then why did you take these pictures? And why are you giving them back to me? Because if you are trying to blackmail me then don’t bother, I don’t have any money.
Join the club - I think to myself and then stare at her in disbelief, eyes growing wider. Blackmail? Well, it was one of the few things that she wasn’t yet accused of. But every day brings more bliss, doesn’t it?
I had no deeper motive, and it wasn’t planned.
Explain yourself or I’m calling the nurse.
I am sure she will be happy with the extra responsibilities.
Last chance.
My stare falls on the fingers of her right hand, that are wrapped around an alarm button attached to the side of her bed. I sigh, giving up. I was going to tell her anyway, but her attitude made me want to rebel and fight back with the same set of weapons.
I’m a photographer by profession and old habits die hard, but still, these belong to you. I thought you might want them, also they are deleted from my phone. I still have copies on my laptop but won’t use them without your consent for any public viewing or to make a profit. I might be weird but I’m also fair.
She takes her time, judging my answer.
You really are strange. And if I tell you to delete all the copies?
Then I will say I did it and you will have to believe me, and my good character.
That’s hardly convincing.
I am aware, however, if you ever want to sue me or something, here are my details. Also, here is my ID so you can make sure.
I pass the little plastic card and wait. She stares at it suspiciously and shakes her head looking closely at the picture.
You used to look better. What happened?
Grief, drugs and unexpected sickness that is kicking me down until I can taste dirt between my teeth... sorry, I’m being too graphic, another habit of mine.
And are you still sick?
She looks me up and down, searching for some kind of disease that she could pin on me.
I take a few turns, spinning around and then take a small bow.
As displayed and shown on the real-life picture.
You’re not a very serious person.
It’s not a question, more of a statement.
I try not to; it might kill me faster. Sarcastic sense of humor provides me entertainment while I bathe in my glum.
The girl stares at me in a patronizing way but then her expression changes.
Is it curable, whatever you got?
No, I don’t think so. But I found someone that makes it livable. As long as he is helping me out, things seem almost normal. I probably wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him.
And are you on special medication?
She asks and sits back on the bed, her eyes filtering me right to the core, layer by layer. Yet somehow I don’t feel uncomfortable, I think that she can relate to my state because of her own sickness.
You could say that. I think you can call it one of those experimental treatments that nobody really knows how they will turn out.
How often?
Well, to be on the safe side and not to feel too bad, I suppose that two times a day, but often it’s just once because I’m stubborn.
And if you don’t get it?
If I hold on without it for too long, I get worse. Lets’ face it, all shit breaks loose and the gates of hell spread wide. Sorry, mind my language.
Trust me, I’ve heard better.
Yes, probably. I’m just pretending to be more civil than I am. Keeping up pretenses amuses me and keeps me more focused.
There is a moment of silence as Morgan thinks of what she just heard from me. I can see she is indecisive about something as if she is not ready to throw in the towel yet - a fighter. She looks at the picture then at me.
What are your symptoms, what exactly happens to you then?
I don’t even hesitate before answering.
I start to have pains, massive ones. Everything around me is heightened. The light, the sounds as if someone wanted to rip my skull open just for fun. I sweat as if in a fever state, my body trembles and... it feels like I have too many thoughts in my head. Both my mind and body fighting for victory in the championship that will decide whichever will finish me off sooner.
She nods and I know she gets it. What we have is obviously not the same, but the pain and suffering are understandable to both of us. She taps her finger against the picture like she is trying to make sense of this whole situation.
You answered my questions.
Of course.
Why?
Because you asked.
Just like that.
Yes, just like that.
Other grownups and professionals don’t seem to agree with your opinion.
I wouldn’t count me as a grownup, they are a mean bunch and I have been declined the membership several times.
Morgan smiles slightly and keeps staring at her own miniature captured on a piece of glossy paper.
Why did you take my pictures? The real reason, not just some cheap, official version.
I sigh and cross my arms.
I was in the moment. Also, to be honest, that hasn’t happened to me in a while. And whenever I see something that moves me, there is this need to grasp it and stop the moment in time. Maybe such an answer seems corny but it’s all I got. I mean, I could bore you with a lot of details of how wonderfully the light played out and how the gray of the heavy clouds made everything seem deeper, or I like the position of your body and how your profile showed off many sides to your character. But come on, no one wants to hear that.
She looks at me, judging my answer, then checks the photo as if to make sure all I said was there. Her shoulders shrug and she crosses her arms as well.
No, no one wants to hear that.
There is a small smile lighting up her normally blazed face, just a barely visible trace, a spark, and it feels like I just conquered a new planet or slain a beast in the deepest pits of darkness; as if I finally got a reward instead of a punishment. It was disturbing but in an almost pleasant way.
Pass me your phone.
Why?
She asks, her tone less hostile as she puts her head to the side, and lifts an eyebrow.
Just do it.
Surprisingly she does and puts her other hand on the buzzer while handing me the phone. I roll my eyes - always a fighter. I take it and type in some digits.
My phone number, if you ever get into trouble or want to talk about how crappy life is. Don’t worry, I’ve got almost no social life so I will make time.
Actually, I was just thinking about how long do they keep stalkers in jail.
If you don’t want to call, then don’t. Your choice.
I head to the door but then stop in my tracks.
Then again, just text. Rings give me a massive headache.
Hold up.
I turn around, curious.
So, your name is really Elenore, isn’t that super old fashioned, like prehistoric?
Asks a girl, that probably knows ’Pride and Prejudice” by heart?
She crosses her arms and blasts the music back on.
Touché.
I walk out of her room, a smile lifting the corners of my lips. My steps are much lighter as I pass the hallway and head to the cafeteria where I know he is right now, my body already craving for some food and a ‘rehabilitation session’ with my private nurse.
The best set of anesthetic in the house.
________
last 3 chapters
16. https://theprose.com/post/274615/the-socializing-street
17. https://theprose.com/post/276704/visiting-hours
18. https://theprose.com/post/281116/a-grounded-feeling
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