Steady Ground | ✔

18 | If dreams were scented

If dreams were scented, Atlas knew his would be filled with suffocating sandalwood incense and the chill of disinfectants. But they weren't. He could only see the red tinted smoke and the stark white walls of Mission Hospital that hinted of their existence.

His subconscious removed all things pleasant. There were no oil paintings of waterfalls and grazing deer. Light did not glint off of the expansive development in bursts of orange and purple as the sun hugged close to the horizon of mountains. The view beyond the window was black, darker and wetter than inside the Eye. Yellow light washed down on him as he stood at the foot of Grandma Georgie's bed. The doctor's clipboard was made of pink skin. Her foot tapped clay floor indented with hundreds of footsteps and the wheels of metal carts.

The longer you stay, the worse she'll be. The doctor's warning clogged the air. She never said it. She may as well have. The pressure for him to leave was palpable. But yet, he didn't. He was too tired.

Grandma Georgie's thin skin was yellow-gray with protruding purple veins. Her eyes were closed. Atlas told himself just one more minute as he stepped closer, placing his hand on hers. Warmth seeped out of his skin and the chill ran up his arm. He squeezed it slightly and then cupped it in both hands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice echoed like he was in a cavern. He had never been as close to her as some of his other relatives, but seeing her on her deathbed left him tearing up. She wasn't healthy by any means, but even he knew she still had another fifteen years of fight in her yet, if not more. Seeing her like this felt wrong.

He closed his eyes. The room went dark around him. He breathed out in a slow sigh, willing the wetness in his eyes to disappear. If she woke up, he didn't want her to see him crying.

In those moments of pure blackness, he could almost hear the drumming of leather boots on skin and the breathing of his fellow captives, feel the tingling pressure of air along his fingers and face; but when he opened his eyes again, he was doused once more in yellow light.

Water thrashed in the distance. He let go of his grandmother's hands, his body tensing at the sound. That was his father, his brain told him.

Grandma Georgie's eyes flew open. Atlas shouted, backpedaling from the bed when she jerked upright, blank white eyes staring straight through him.

"This is all your fault!" she shrieked.

The walls of the hospital room faded away, and now he was standing ankle deep in hot water. Steam rose and wisped against his face. A team of nurses trudged through the water like it were viscous corn syrup, pushing forward a stretcher. His father laid on it. He looked completely normal with his arms crossed on his chest.

His grandmother continued to scream somewhere in the distance, but all Atlas could do was stare as his father slowly blackened in front of him, his skin chipping away like old paint. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, drowning out the sound of the nurses yelling. Somehow he knew they were scared they wouldn't make it. There was too much water on the ground. They would drown before they got him to the ER.

Suddenly, the water started rising. It slammed into him like a rogue wave, and before he knew it, he was rocketed flat against the dock leading out of the Eye. He clawed and grabbed at the planks, but he was trapped.

Atlas gasped for breath, eyes snapping open.

His chest begged for air as he jerked awake. He pressed a hand to his ribs, staring at the ceiling of the nose jail. Blood continued to pound through his veins as he laid there.

Everyone around him was asleep now.

He squeezed his shirt in a fist, forcing quick shallow breaths to slow down, swallowing the lump in his throat.