The Coma Patient

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

It took me a moment to realize that the voice was really there. It wasn’t just an illusion brought on by the accuracy of the drawing. My eyes flashed up and sucked in a sharp breath. There he was. Standing only a few feet away. Him. I tossed my sketch book and pencil towards my bag and stood up.

“W-what are you doing here?” I asked. I silently cursed at my voice for cracking.

His dark eyes softened slightly as they met mine. “I know I should be here. I just needed to see how you were. I needed to speak to you.”   

I shook my head. “You want to know how I’m doing? Really? Well, let’s see. I woke up from a coma in which I met you. I have been fighting with myself trying to figure out if you’re real or not because I really don’t want to be the girl that has actual feelings for someone that I dreamt up. I’ve been hallucinating, I’ve seen a therapist, I found out my boyfriend—ex boyfriend—is a liar, and I was in a fire. So yeah, I’m great.”

“You have feelings for me?” he asked, his cheeks turning pink.

“Is that all you heard out of that?” I replied crossing my arms.

He shook his head, as though clearing his thoughts. “No, no, look, Chastity, I—“ He stopped. He walked forward until he was directly in front of me. He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m not meant to be here. I’m not supposed to care. But I do. I didn’t want this to happen to you. You were supposed to wake up and just move on from what happened. That’s what the others do. They write it off as a simple dream and then walk away.”

“But I can’t,” I whispered.

            “I know. I know. And I know that it’s hurting you.”

            “I just want answers, Christian. I need answers,” I said. “I still don’t fully understand what happened.”

            Christian took a step back and sat down on the tree stump that was across from mine. He waved his hand, gesturing for me to take a seat. “What do you want to know?” he asked once I was seated.

            My mind raced with questions, one after the other. After a moment I just blurted one out. “Who are you?”

            “We don’t really have a name. Most just call us Guides. We are sent to comatose patients—ones that are close to death—and we are meant to guide them through memories, their own or of those close to them, and help them decide whether they want to wake up or not. At the end of the maze you are meant to receive that question. Most decide to go back. But there are many that decide not to. They die. Not necessarily directly afterwards but eventually.”

            “Why didn’t I get asked?”

            “You were an interesting case. You weren’t meant to be there and you were certainly not meant to be my patient. That was me. I knew that if anyone else got you they’d figure out that I knew you. My brother, Sebastian, figured it out almost immediately and decided to end your trip early.”

            “How did you know me?”

            This was where he hesitated. “Do you remember when you were a little girl? The old house on Porter Street?” I nodded. “What about the neighbors? The ones with the children.”

            “The Walkers? They were nice. Three kids. Two boys and a baby girl. I was the same age as their second boy, we were friends. But they died in a house fire…” My eyes snapped up to meet Christian’s.

            “Do you remember their children’s names?” he asked. His voice was soft and pained.

            I felt my stomach knot. “Marla and John. Their daughter was Margaret. The oldest boy was Sebastian. And then, my friend…Christian.” His name came out in a whisper. I remembered them. How could I have forgotten? I remembered them so vividly now. I was six or seven and I would go over to their backyard to play with Christian on their swing set. I felt my eyes burn and a warm tear rolled down my face. “You’re dead?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a question.

            He nodded. “Sebastian and I were the only two that were recruited to become Guides. They allowed us to age during our training to keep our appearance from confusing the patients.”

            “You’re dead?” I asked again, tears falling down my cheeks.

            He reached out and put his hand on mine. It was cold. “I’m sorry.”

            “How can you be dead?” I was on my feet again, backing away from him. “You—you’re here. I can see you. You’re real. How can you be dead?”

            “Chastity, I don’t know what you want me to say—“

            “I want you to tell me you’re not dead,” I said. My voice was sharp and hard. “I want you to be here. I want you to stay with me.”

            He stood up and met my eyes. “I wish I could.” There was pain evident in his purple irises.

            It was that moment that I lost control of myself. “I hate you, Christian Walker. I hate you. And I never want to see you again.” After those words were out of my mouth I felt myself moving. I was walking away from the man that had fallen to his knees on the overgrown grass. I walked back to my house without looking back. I walked up the stairs and into my temporary room without bothering with my mother’s passing questions. I locked my door and fell back onto my bed. This whole time I was chasing a ghost. I’d spent so much time on nothing.