Thump, thump. Thump, thump. My heart, the beat of a drum, sends blood through my veins, pounding in my ears. I'm tickled from the inside, unable to scratch; awake in the mind, but dormant in the body. The beeps from a nearby machine are my melody, repeating over and over again. Sharp pangs arise from time to time, shocking me like Haydn's "Surprise." Though I conduct little of this broken symphony.
Footsteps, high heels from time to time, clunk outside my room, on beat, off beat. Voices chatter, walking by, fading in and out at the wrong times, off the timing of my heartbeat, off the timing of the footsteps. I never know whether I should be disgusted or intrigued. A nurse comes in to check on me. I hear the nurse's breath as she types on the computer. Offbeat.
Her familiar footsteps, always carrying a beat of their own, swamp my makeshift symphony. They're followed by others. The two speak of sweet things I miss so badly. I fight my body's state to scream that I'm still here, that I miss them, love them. They hug me, sending shooting pains through me; I wish I could brace, but I appreciate them as much as I can. They kiss me goodbye, bringing a warm, soothing feeling through my body, from head to toe. They leave crying. I think to reach for them. I can only think to.
Back to the symphony, the broken, painful symphony.
The familiar footsteps sound again. My heart would have leapt, then would have dropped. They only feel pain around me. It seeps into my wounds like venom and by itself creates a form of torture I could have never imagined. It's a weight on my chest, forcing my lungs down into the bed, suffocating me.
Those familiar footsteps I have come to hate with a firey passion. They interrupt my symphony which I have worked so hard to perfect in my head. They create new music which is comparable to country. They hug me and kiss me and say sweet things to me, but all are bitter, so bitter I want to gag. Their tears turn to flames which sear my mind, burning it to a crisp.
I can cut it all out. No more footsteps, no more voices, no more awful beeping. I'm left alone in this darkness, only waiting. No more pain. It's better this way. The faint feeling of arms surrounding me. I feel it, but only physically. I know no one, I love no one. It's better this way. I am free, alone with my symphony.
My ears have learned to cut out the music, the heartbeat, a drum, everything. My symphony is silence. Voices are melodies I hardly remember. I am alone in my mind, with only the occasional itch or pain bothering me. It's better this way.
I'm exhausted. Wakefulness has lost all meaning. Darkness, darker than what I know here, holds out its gentle hand, welcoming me. Still, something inside of me refuses to sleep. I'd never have to think, never have to feel, if I could only let myself slip into oblivion.
A voice. It tells me softly that I shouldn't suffer. I should be free, happy. It says to follow it. The voice is constant; my will to survive has vanished. Finally, I remove the shackles I didn't know I had and think of walking, chasing the gentle sound of the voice I know so well. Once more Death reaches out its soft hand, which I hold on to so tightly and it holds on to me. I won't lose it again.
I see light. I hear sounds, and I'm filled with an overwhelming sense of elation that overflows and spills into the stars. I look into those beautiful eyes--
I was on my way to my next concert when the crash happened.
