Resurrection

Untitled Part 3

At first it was white... then there was nothing.

I couldn't remember anything before the white.

Had there been anything before the white?

There was a long period of nothingness, but then came the pain — waves of it pulsing through me —but it left as fast as it had arrived. It felt like a conclusion; a completion.  But of what?

What was this place?

Where was I?

I know I should be panicking, but I'm not; I can't — I can't think of anything to be panicking about.

A canvas empty of paint, I could not remember a single thing. How could this be? The confusion was too thick for me to panic; it chocked me, crawling inside my mind, slowing me down like a drug. Nothing made sense. My head hurt, but I had no head. There was no image, I could feel no body; it was as though I was detached somehow. Alive, but not at the same time.

I don't know how long I lay, in this odd state of semi-consciousness; sort of like the moment when you're lying in bed, not quite awake, with the dream lingering in the back of your mind.

How could I make this analogy, yet not know a thing about myself?

When I tried to think about things, I hurt, exhausted but unable to switch off, so I listened - it was less exhausting. In the beginning the snippets of conversation I heard were inaudible, but the more I concentrated on listening, the clearer the voices became.

I tried thinking again, how had I gotten here? What was my life like before? The harder I tried to think, the harder I ached; my thoughts tied themselves up in knots, getting me nowhere, but aching like a muscle that hadn't been used in a long time.

There was no rest, no sleep, in this state; I had no concept of time — minutes seemed like hours, hours like days — how did I know? If I listened carefully I could hear the click of a door, the scurrying of feet; people moving, changing shifts —

How did I know? The voices changed. One voice remained throughout it all, relentless, restless: a male voice; with his two assistants changing every hour, some who he appreciated the company of more than others - you could tell by his tone. On the chime of each hour, as each assistant left, she would leave the door slightly ajar. The chimes from the clock outside would seep their way through the fog that was my mind, bringing clarity.

I focused on the things around me — the regulated heart monitor, a machine that would scream every time I thought to hard; I assume it must be some sort of brain wave monitoring device. I am in a hospital of some kind. The man who remains has superior authority; he is only ever spoken to as Dr Wren, whilst the nurses flit in and out: Anna, Becca, Catrina. Alphabetical.

Am I in a coma?  Is this some pre-dead state the brain dead go?

No.

I'm not brain-dead - I can think. I have coherent thoughts. Where are my friends and family? The question booms through my thoughts, echoing at such a volume I cover my ears. It is deafening. But the most sickening part is I already know the answer — they are dead.

We are all dead.

I am dead. 

So why am I here? How am I here? How is this possible? — Why can't I think?

They don't want you to think a voice answered within my head. My voice. They don't want me to think. They didn't want me to remember; but remember what? 

I fear I may snap out of this semi-consciousness and fall into the afterwards, whatever lies there. Perhaps rest, maybe there is a heaven, maybe there is nothing. I don't know. I don't want to go there, not yet. But I can feel it, a solidness within my bones.