Wake me

19: Dreams

It was as if I couldn't breathe, and every time I took a deeper breath, something would stab me in the throat. My chest was being pushed, pressurized by something. What was it? Worry? No, but whatever it was, it was killing me slowly. It was as if somebody was holding me beneath the water, forcing me to stare up at the reflection of the outside world- safe, tranquil. While I was being choked, people were laughing outside, on the shore, pointing at me. Calling my name- yes, but out of mockery or jest. Should I close my eyes? Block everything out? The air in my lungs was being squeezed out, escaping my lips and sending bubbles up through the water. Cold water rushed in through my thin lips, filling my lungs, causing me to splutter and choke. But it all seemed worth it. All this pain, all this suffering for no reason, it seemed worth it. As if the goal in my life was to... was to kill myself.

I opened my eyes, gasping for air, clawing at my throat in earnest. But when the smooth air traveled down my crusty throat, I knew it was just another bad dream. I exhaled deeply, and felt a pang in my chest when my weary eyes set onto Anna's cold body. Stiff and blue, she lay crumpled and breathless against the wall. I brought my hands to my cheeks; they felt bruised and puffed from all the crying. I sat up, and crawled over to Anna. I had obviously moved in the night with my fitful dreams. I placed a hand on her forehead, her eyes staring up at me. They were clouded over, a glassy sheet veiling them like a death curtain. My muscles went loose, and I kissed her forehead softly. "You were amazing, Anna," I murmured, "I just wish I knew you in my memories." Anna's chest was solid and off, and no matter how many presses and urges to get it to start pumping oxygen, it refused to move. Her skeleton was decided; rigid and set. I wished Luke would come get me now, he needed to take Anna away. I needed to bury her. I was stuck alone in this room now, no words to say to anybody, nobody to ask questions to. No answers. I still had no idea where I was, and the fear of it wallowed around me like a thick and heavy smog. There was no way to escape it, this dense, unforgiving fear that I, the girl who probably used to know it all, knew absolutely nothing now.

Luke had come to get me that afternoon, or so I thought it was, and he was rather surprised to see a dead body. It was as if he didn't realize she was dying when he last saw her. "She died?" He asked with a frown. His unsympathetic eyes were leveled, staring at the body. I nodded, swallowing chunky tears down.
"Yes, can't you see?"
"Oh," he said, "That's a pity."
"A pity?" I spat, "She was my best friend, and she died! You can't just stand there shrugging."
"People die all the time, Grace," he frowned at me, crossly, "It's just your choice to not let go." His words seemed to echo in my head, wise words. Was it true? Could people really choose whether to die or not?
"It's not her choice." I defended, "You're keeping us in this horrible place, you aren't answering our questions. We don't know where we are!"
"You mean you don't know," he corrected me innocently, "Anna's dead, she can't-"
"Shut up!" I snapped angrily. "Is this all some big joke to you?"
"You do know." He stated. His tongue seemed to pronounce these words so clearly. He had that effect on me- as if he had studied saying these sentences forever. As if they were being whispered right into my ear. I sighed, slumping against the wall. Anna's body lay there still, he hadn't stepped closer to it. I glazed over my bruises on my arms, their purple, pink, blue and black splotches seemed like a gorgeous paint palette for an artist. I could imagine them dipping their metal-hair brushes into my skin, trying to extract the colours, smearing them onto a canvas. "You look like art." Luke whispered. It was as if he could understand what I was thinking. Luke's eyes seemed so much more alive, staring into me. Could he read minds? I shivered, placing my hands over the bruises.
"That's not a good thing," I sniffed, "It means I'm..." I couldn't think of the right word to put at the end of that sentence. I wasn't entirely sure if it was a good thing.
"Art is always beautiful." Luke suggested.
"Art is dangerous," I rejected.
"How so?" His thick eyebrow was raised in an arch, asking me to explain. I didn't feel like talking to this sick monster, but instead I came to the conclusion that it was a way to keep my mind occupied and fresh.
"Well, you see, if an artist creates a piece of art," I said softly, "He puts it on show for everybody to see. If they like it, they demand more. And this means an overload in stress. If they don't like it- well, you have to deal with all the criticism. And that's normally not good, constructive criticism. Anyway," I motioned towards the bruises, "Just like the bruises, they fade away. The art might get famous, it might get a lot of attention, but soon, unwillingly, things break it down. It fades off, and people won't really know when it's gone until it's completely gone. Until there's nothing left. Art makes you go crazy, too. If you look at a piece of art, your mind wanders. It thinks of all the deep meanings that could be behind the paint. It's so busy searching for that meaning that it forgets to notice the most obvious meaning. The meaning that speaks to them. The obvious one. Art is something that simple people don't like. They say it's for insane people. People who don't have friends, or a brain for that matter. But art... Art is..."
"Beautiful?" Luke suggested the word simply. To my surprise, I realized it was the word that would've fit too perfectly.
I nodded.
"Grace, I love you. This is why I love you, your mind is such a beautiful place," he whispered, "That's why I need you to wake up."