l a p s e

the question

Bright lights. But no, not stage lights, because here I was uncomfortable. Cold, too. My limbs were clammy. I did not like being clammy; it was like being held in the vice of a nightmare, and as much as I knew that the lights and the pain in my arm were real and not a dream, it felt very much like one.

I also decided that I did not like linen. It chafed at my back and the edges of my awareness, an irritation I couldn't get away from. Along with this irritation was a droning voice from somewhere above me, talking in rushed tones, no breaks, and it morphed into something like the hum of an insect the more I tried to focus on what the person said.

It was hard to see anything because of the fluorescence that was like a solidness, a shield in front of my eyes. It layered itself over me and inside me too. My skin was milky, blinding. I glowed.

There were three voices now. The drone, another who spoke in monosyllables, and another, several pitches higher, who was in hysterics. I still could not figure out who they were. Nor did I want to move my head – taking my eyes away from the light felt like a dangerous thing to do in this nightmare.

Then – the throbbing in my arm became a shout. I think I screamed, because there was a fourth voice. Everything I was swirled into that one, unflinching spot. My face became clammy, too, and damp. Yet I did not close my eyes or move them away, because this was getting worse by the second, and that light was all I could see. All I would see.

It was then, to distract myself, that I noticed the smell. Low, seething. Not like a smell, but like a shadow, something that permeated everything around me – the air, the linen, and I was sure it was crawling into me, now, too. The smell of decay. It was not immediately noticeable, but more like something that grew on you like a mold. That wound itself around your legs and dragged you inside it.

And there, more than this smell, was the feeling. Not just my own pain but the ghosts of others', and it somehow intensified the burning in me.

The higher pitched voice was softer now. Comforting me, I realized, because I was the one in hysterics now. The light. My cheeks grew wetter. The light. My free arm gripped the scratchy linen.

Smoke. It yanked the light apart in front of my face, slowly at first and then all in one staggering second. I dissolved into blackness, and then into something else.

I opened my eyes to a different kind of illumination altogether – firelight, bloody red and dancing on the walls. It spilled through the open door, and the minute I set eyes on it, panic began to curdle in my belly. I shot upright, the blood rushing to my head, and swung my legs off the edges of my bed. They hit the wooden floor with a thump.

"Don't move," came your voice from behind me. I turned around to face you, slower this time, and found you seated on a wicker chair at the other end of the room. Your hand was outstretched and your eyes wide open, muddled with the same panic I felt.

I pointed to the door. "Fire," I rasped, but it hardly came out as a word. I tried again. "Fire."

You visibly relaxed. The panic drooped into a gentle smile. "Don't worry. I've got it under control." Standing up, you moved over to the bed and leaned over, gripping my shoulders. "Lie down. Please. You're still burning up."

With your help I eased myself back down onto my elbows. You were leaning over me, just like you had that evening – had it been that evening? – but this time I was nowhere close to drowning. My head was clear and so was my vision. This time I was the one whose hand reached out, and my fingers met the side of your cheek. And this time, you were the one who closed your eyes.

"You need help," you whispered into my palm. "Your..."

"Shhh."

"I'm scared."

Your entire body sighed as you sunk onto the bed. My hand moved from stroking your cheekbones to threading – softly, barely – into the hair at your temples. Like I was not touching you but instead the fire that still casted ruby phantoms on the walls.

You didn't flinch. Didn't move, until you were tilting forward so that your cold forehead pressed against mine. I noticed that your shirt was damp, but I didn't ask why.

And I whispered, "Don't be."