Insane and Infinite
What defines us is what we have done. We are the product of our experiences, but also the consequences of all of the choices along the way.
I am afraid. I shield my eyes from the light as blinding as flame. I can't stand the light; I prefer to drift in obscurity without disturbance. My pulse accelerates, my stiff body finally coming to its senses. How long have I been knocked out? The light dances in hazy flashes before my eyes, an intoxicating chemical stench clung in the air. Where was I? I feel strangely devoid and dainty, but at the same time I feel as if I weigh the world. I just know it. I am back in Rehab. Perhaps this is all a dream, and in seconds the world will dissolve, melt and gnarl into a reality in which I am back on the street, smelling of alcohol and desperation. I didn't know which is worse.
I want to run. Memories collide and flicker, but never last long. I do, however, remember that I loved to run. My long legs always gave me an advantage, sprinting with acute swiftness, through gravity and time. The physical pain of a solid hard run is always more tolerable than the constant screaming in my head. I want to escape the four white walls of the Rehabilitation Room, to break away and become an element of the wind, to finally be free from myself and indulge in nullity. But where do I run? Who am I to the rest of the world?
It takes all my strength to recall the last moments. They do not seem genuine in existence, they flash and quiver. I remember the crash and the blood. But that was so far long ago. I remember the funeral and the taste of salt on my lips. There are holes there, I feel as if a lot had happened after that, but was lost in the crazy frenzy of the vortex where my memories stir. It comes back, this time in more flashes, colourful blinding flashes, blaring music and alcohol. I remember feeling mad and unstable, an impulse to pull my hair out of my head and scream until sound itself is a concept lost in the madness of the world. Then it all comes to me, like a harsh, unexpected slap.
The night is as frigid as stone. The party is in full bloom, I am too drunk and depressed to contemplate. As I exhale, loose tendrils of fog create shapes in the crisp air. It is the edge of autumn, copper-bronze leaves flutter in the sharp breeze, a caramel-russet landscape. I don't seem to recover from the tragic car accident. Everything is fuzzy. The music is pounding in my ears even though I am now heading up the building. Why am I here? Why am I in such a reckless state? I know the answers. I am too afraid to admit to them. Everyone seems to be having a good time partying, but they are all just searching for an excuse to get drunk and forget the pain. My life consists of regret, misery, drugs and pain. I am weak and feeble; I have no one left to depend on, to trust and to admire. I stumble up the narrow staircase, a searing pain burning in my chest. My eyes are swollen from crying, my world collapsing in agony. I remember the night I had lost them; I had been too stubborn and naive with them. I want them now; I want them to call me their beloved daughter, to protect me. I wanted them back so bad.
With a slight push the decayed door that the stairs lead up to bursts open, revealing the open rooftop, where the strong wind almost whips me off my feet. It is much easier to breathe here. The air is cool and the stars above glow innocently like shattered silver, the only type of radiance I actually fancy. I take a few steps towards the edge, the music in the background fading and the buzz and hum of the city below replacing it. I glance down, the still busy city road and the brilliance of the abounding city lights. The pulsating energy from the busy yet simple lives below me. I don't realise how close I am to the edge of the rooftop. If only I can run. Run off the rooftop. Run and run until my bare legs gain the ability to run through air, to fly away.
I fight the dizziness, fight the sounds. It is just the millions of lives below me and I. It takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is. I feel the heavy wind dance through my hair and linger on my skin-whispering and soothing me. I can taste alcohol on my tongue. I feel the rush in my veins and the pounding in my head synchronise. I close my eyes, losing all senses but feeling more alive than ever. I do not know if it is an effect of depression or drug addiction, nausea or the adrenaline. But for a single instant, a fraction of a second, I swear, I am infinite. Not mad, depressed and insane. Infinite.
I open my eyes. My body is suffering the effects of the drugs. Pain instantly springs through me. The city looks like a sea of light under me that I have the impulse to dive into. A combination of nostalgia and misery takes over me. My heart pounds incredibly hard. I look down. What is my purpose? Who am I living for? What have I done to myself? What am I defined as? Worthless? Mad? The thoughts want me to leap off the rooftop. I take one step closer. Another step would mean I was straight on the edge. I almost collapse from the whirling sensation, I feel again as if I'm in a dream. Should I? Should I not? Would a leap mean that I was finally free? That I could savour the darkness I treasured so much? One step. Cars the size of my fingernails below me. A final step. I take a deep breath. Did this mean that I can join my long-gone parents? That the chain was broken? I prepare to leap, the momentary notion taking advantage of me. I hear voices around me. I smell blood. I see flashes, just like that horrific day. More flashes, this time blue and red. Sirens pierce and wail, I am pinned to the floor by paramedics, I screech, shriek and gasp for air. I was one moment away from eternal freedom.
I continue to scream, but this time I am back in the Rehabilitation Room, my flashback terrifying me. A doctor attempts to settle me. A needle is injected and my muscles relax. My breathing slows; I stare at the blank ceiling. Who am I? A depressed, drug addicted girl with no family? The doctor, who has fine chocolate hair and dark almond-shaped eyes, glances at me as I lay on the bed.
"Why did they save me? I am nothing but a waste of space." He probably thought I was still mad.
"You have plenty ahead of you; your past does not matter as much as you think it does." He looks away, his thick Russian accent ringing in the empty room.
"But don't our experiences define who we are? We are what we have done, a product of our experiences."
I challenge, looking him straight in the eye. He seems surprised, I beat it is rare that someone admitted into rehab would ask such direct questions. He seemed to shrug it off, packing his case full of medicine and standing up to leave. I still stare at him. His eyes meet mine and he whispers-
"It is not what we have done in the past that matters, but how well we stand up after being knocked down. That's what defines us." Within a second he was gone and the effects of the medicine started kicking in.
Lights start to appear. Lights from the accident, from the parties, from the city, from the ambulance, from everywhere. They swallow me in their limitless luminosity. I do not shield my eyes. The doctor's words ring in my ear. I drift off under the hazy influence of medication, and for once, I am not afraid.
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