At 5:20 am, Jenny guides my arm from my cocoon of blankets and takes my vitals. My numbers glow red in the smothering darkness. Blood pressure: 81/57. Pulse: 74. Temperature: 96.6. I am entering hibernation and I don't mind.
7:16 am - Tori tries to coax me into eating breakfast. "They're having French toast and bacon!" she insists, tugging the edge of my blanket. I don't say anything. Creatures in hibernation don't eat, after all. I lie still, barely breathing, trying to blend into the shadows. Tori gives up and exits my room with a sigh. She leaves the door gaping wide open.
7:28 am - Fingers of gold light reach in through the window, trying to pull me away from my dreams and out of bed. I burrow deeper into the covers, face hidden inside the folds of the hospital sheets.
8:30 am - I wake on my own and make eye contact with Big Brother. We blink at each other. I wish I knew Morse Code so I could ask the nurses watching the monitors to come and give me more sedatives.
9:27 am - Evan comes in to take my vital signs again. I tell him to fuck off. Surprisingly enough, he does.
10:00 am - The custodial staff rev up the floor cleaning machine. It roars down the hall and back, preventing me from sleeping for ten minutes while it polishes the floor to a glassy, reflective shine.
10:41 am - Jenny wrestles with me until she gets the blood pressure cuff around my arm. Sleep laps at my ankles, so I give up. Blood pressure: 90/60. Pulse: 83. Temperature: 96.8. "You need to drink some fluids," Jenny chastises.
I ask for antifreeze.
She rolls her eyes and disappears, portable vitals machine clattering next to her.
11:02 am - Jenny returns with a cup of apple juice. She grabs a handful of bedding and yanks it off of me with one sharp tug. "Sit up and drink," she commands in an "or else!" tone of voice. I obey her orders and choke down the liquid, its sweetness sticking in my throat. I don't even open my eyes.
11:11 am - I make a wish. I wish I were dead.
11:45 am - I refuse lunch.
12:00 pm - I refuse afternoon meds.
2:05 pm—Dr. Fox enters my room. He stands over me, arms crossed, until he's sure I'm listening. His face is expressionless as he informs me that he's increasing my antidepressant and is also starting me on a "new and improved" mood stabilizer. "You can't sleep life away when things get difficult," he says, adjusting his glasses. I flick him off when he turns his back to leave.
I hibernate well past sundown and the departure of the day crew. The night nurse, Garrett, comes in and demands that I eat something. "I don't want to send you to a medical hospital for force-feeding," he says, his eyes glimmering with concern.
I shove some saltine crackers into my mouth and chew and chew and chew them into a pasty ball. I wash the stuff down with a few revolting gulps from a plastic bottle of chalky nutritional supplement Garrett pushes into my hand. I wipe my mouth on my blanket and collapse back onto the pillows.
***
The following day is more or less the same. I refuse the rainbow of pills Jenny presents to me and Dr. Fox strolls in, jaw set, and tells me that if I don't take my meds orally, he'll put in an order for them to be given by injection. I tunnel under the sheets and hum softly until I can't hear him anymore. I pretend I'm in an ice cave, a beast hiding from the people wandering around outside with their spears. Layers of time steadily peel away.
The blanket traps my hot, sour breath next to my face. I live on the shimmering edge of a dream where Daniel is healthy and we're together. I'm able to imagine that it's his breath on my face and then things aren't so horrible anymore. I remember how his smooth hands fit so well against the curves of my body. I can almost smell the crisp, woodsy scent of his cologne. I remember the faded spray of freckles across his nose, how it softened the strong angles of his face.
My good memories of Daniel nourish me, flow life into my heart. He makes me feel more alive in my dreams than I do when I'm awake. It's as if his spirit is leaving his broken, comatose body one breath at a time and feeding his dream self. I'm afraid it means he's a few more inches closer to death than I realized. Isolating myself under my blankets and alienating everyone around me like I've been doing for the past two days isn't living. And maybe that means I'm a few more inches closer to death than he is.
YOU ARE READING
Freedom of Sketch
Teen Fiction-Completed- After seventeen-year-old artist Shiloh Mackenzie is accused of assaulting her classmate and setting her school on fire, her dark and graphic portfolio catches the principal's attention. Suspended pending a psychiatric evaluation, Shiloh...
