Catharsis

THREE

I'm spiraling down into a dream. Through a tunnel of darkness I fall and land right back here in Howard Young. I'm careening through the ICU, but when I throw open the door of room two fourteen, I land on the bank of Lake Pauto. There, I relive the memory of last night. I feel every crack in my spine, every jolt of my muscles. As I lie on the ground in a reprieve, I turn to see a figure standing in the darkness. If it wasn't for his pallid expression, I might not have recognized him.

"Dad?"

Blunt pain digs into my gut and his eyebrows scrunch with dread. With the sensation of a transformation that didn't happen, I wake disoriented in a flurry of screaming. Trees to fade into vitals monitors, IV pole, lamp, half-cracked mini blinds. When reality comes back, it takes even longer to silence my own shouting.

"Alicia, please!" Sammy cries.

"Out of the way!"

I push myself up until I'm sitting in the tangle of bed sheets. I should be aware enough to rip myself out of the dream, but some kind of phantom sensation still washes over me, growing my shoulders. Something brawny and sinewy and swollen. Sammy's being ushered from the room by Fuchsia Scrubs. My heart is palpitating, teeth clenched. Fuchsia Scrubs turns back to me. I close my eyes and lean back into the flat pillow.

"Expect this kind of reaction for a while. It's anxiety from the seizure episode."

"No it's not. My Dad is gone," the words form lazily on my tongue before they make any sense.

Fuschia Scrubs nods empathetically. "I know, honey, I know. Try to slow your breathing."

I arch my back slightly against the mattress, hoping it will shake the prickling, the thing, that seems to have crawled up through my neck.

"What time is it?" I ask, absentmindedly glancing around for a glimpse of a clock.

"Six o'clock. I think a shower might do you some good," the nurse says and unhooks me from the machines. Thank God. I can't get there soon enough. When I'm free from all the wires, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and step down landing my unsteady feet flat on the cold floor. My aching body feels heavy and weak as I stand. Especially in my chest. It's like I'm carrying a twenty-pound weight there.

The mirror in the bathroom shows an image that I wasn't exactly ready to see. I'm completely covered in dirt. Small wounds - cuts and scrapes - cover every inch of me. My lips are bluish. Tangles of spidery red veins spread across the whites of my eyes, even my irises look reddish. A cold tingle stirs in my right eye, I lean in closer to the mirror and pull down on my lower eyelid just as a dark drop of liquid slips out of the corner and traces a black track down my cheek.

My heart clenches as I step away from the mirror and swipe my hand against my face over and over. Get it off, get it off, get it off! But when I draw my hand away, there's nothing on my palm. Looking in the mirror again, there's nothing there either. It's just my fear is all. Just anxiety. Fuchsia Scrubs is right, best to get in the shower and wash this off me.

Normally hot showers give a nice tingling sensation, but it's not working against my unfeeling skin. At least the fog and the sickening smells dissipate. This almost feels normal. Besides the fact that I'm in a hospital and the towels are about half the size of the ones we have at home, and maybe the last person to use this one died this week.

When I'm satisfied with my cleanliness, I step out and run the rough, white towel over my head to finally wash away last night. I put the skimpy powder blue hospital gown back on. It hits me above the knees and is completely open in the back and the sides. I want my t-shirt and jeans.