Lucid

CHAPTER 1 - COMATOSE

Life has a peculiar way of testing us. It prepares us for what lies ahead, ensuring we have the strength to face whatever challenges come our way. In this case, I suppose life is putting him to the test—our world making sure it has chosen the right champion for the battles to come. The weight of it all hangs heavy in the air, as if the very fabric of existence is holding its breath.

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The only thing I could remember was darkness—suspended in grey water, with no light in sight. Drifting. I didn't know for how long. I couldn't hear, I couldn't see, I couldn't smell. But I could feel. Gentle touches here and there—some cold, others warm. Some sharp enough to poke through my skin, others soft and reassuring.

My mind felt blank, like a black screen waiting for input. I was lost in the silence, only aware of these slight changes happening around me. I couldn't think clearly; I couldn't even dream. The only thing I could do was monologue—a simple line of questioning: Is this my life now? Trapped in the darkness of my dying mind?

Dying. Was I dead? Is this death? The pulsing pain at the side of my head felt all too real, tugging at my soul like a relentless current.

As time passed—or at least it felt like days were slipping by—some of my senses began to grow stronger. Once, I swear I heard someone say, "...it being more psychological than physical..." A faint woman's voice whispered, "...no, we'll do it..."

I didn't recognize those voices. I had never heard them before. It wasn't just the voices; even if I tried, I couldn't manage to recall anything—no memories, no previous thoughts, no mental images that could explain where I was. My head was filled with the pitch-black darkness of absence.

Trying to picture my surroundings or recall how I ended up here was like fighting an uncontrollable current. I was in a canoe, drifting along a calm stream, but I had no oars.

I had no control over where I was taken, no way to steer my thoughts. The only thing I could do was hold on tight, praying I wouldn't drown, pulled under by the void that gasped at the bottom of this ocean.

Hope.

Is this what hope feels like? The desperate yearning to understand, to remember. To piece together what brought me here, the grey space between life and death. At least that's what I hoped this place was.

Again, hope.

If this is truly what hope feels like, then I already hate it. It leaves me empty, like a jug that has spilt its last drop of water. I had no feelings, no bright colours or vibrant sensations.

If I have no feelings, no colour, then I'm not caught between life and death. For having life so close, I should be able to feel it.

Is this death? Is my life finally over?

Finally.

Why "finally"? Shouldn't I feel relieved that something finally happened? Why think finally? Why would I want my life to be finally over? Did something happen? Did something kill me? Was I old? Old enough to have lived a long life and die peacefully? I can't be; I sound so young.

Sound.

I heard a door open. The steps were loud but muffled, an abnormal clicking echoing through the silence. Then the first image began to materialize: high heels. The kind thick enough to make steps sound deliberate. I felt the sudden drop on my left side, the sensation of nearly falling over an edge. But I was still there, stuck in an everlasting suspension. I must be on something.

The second image surfaced: a bed. I was on a bed. Instead of relief, I was filled with an odd sense of disappointment.

Why?