Volitare

Vérification de la réalité

A kaleidoscope of colors burst into view, I am again tumbling into the unknown flailing and pleading. A crescendo of screams plays in the background, glass blurs my vision and imbeds itself in my hair, I kept screaming for Alex. He told me to not let go, yet he did! I could remember the children on the bus, the grandparents wanting to visit their grandchildren, people going to work on a normal day. All these lives.

I could feel the tide crashing on the rocks and thrashing against my skin, I could smell the saltiness that made the sea known, and I could feel my broken bones. Aching and shattered. I could hear the cars screeching to a halt, people’s voices nearer and nearer, until they could not get any nearer. I wanted to scream, I am mute. My throat marred in ways I couldn’t really fathom, fearing I had broken one too many organs or had torn too many tissues. I just lay there, cold and raw. The water soaking me and burning my wounds, these nagging throbs radiating throughout my body. I feel everything and nothing. All I could hope for was oblivion.

***

Having these vivid dreams always leaves me raw. Livid and distraught. They offered nothing but a painful remark of a lost phase of my life. All these dreams were about things I am already aware of; eminent death and my sudden hurl from the bus avoiding said eminent death. I could hear their screams and see their faces again, and it jolts me awake every time.

News about the bus crash hadn’t died down, if anything it sparked people’s interest more and more; whether it was on purpose, or a cover up, a conspiracy, ‘where have all the passengers gone’. My name was mentioned one too many times, a couple of times in the form of bad repertoire; that I had something to do with the crash considering I was the only one who survived. I had to avoid public areas for a while, I couldn’t handle the stares and the whispers -that were more than clear to me- the glares, their judgment devouring me whole. I was laid off Percocet since I was getting too attached to it, it was replaced with other painkillers and anti-depressants. The nightmares, the exposure, made me anxious. My parents kept their distance, my brother also kept his distance and needed to go back to his job, my friends would either call or check up on me via my parents since I wasn’t willing to receive visitors or go out; I alienated myself. I wasn’t even a peninsula; I drifted far off the shore of society I was hoping they would forget about me. That I was as good as dead. Yet they didn’t. I was a constant reminder of loss, my survival wasn’t a miracle or a reflection of divine providence. It was a brand that cursed me. It alienated me.

I would mostly go online to check articles regarding the investigation, any proof that law enforcement was actually looking for clues to explain what happened to console these grieving families. It’s been two months since the accident and still no leads and no clues. It was as if it never happened, that it only served as an interesting topic at dinner parties or hair salons where people can nibble and chew my name like local gossip. It didn’t help in the slightest with my growing anxieties and residing depression, if anything the whole notion of being marred by society worsened them both. I never wanted the recognition or the infamy, I only wanted to know what happened and get on with my life. Deal with my own grief. I thought of Alex often, and that added to the pain of what I lost; a friend. The sorrow would clutch my heart and tug at it with vigor. I rarely cried for my own circumstances, but when it came to Alex I would wail like a banshee. I would wonder what I could’ve done; either I could’ve grabbed him while I was hauled out the window, or at least linger and parish with him. It wasn’t fair that I got to live, it wasn’t fair that I had to live throughout this; the physical pain I constantly felt, the fact that I barely slept, the nightmares, the PTSD…this wasn’t a life.

I spent my time wondering and searching, I kept calling the district we had the accident in asking for leads, they stopped answering my calls getting tired of my constant nagging, that they knew ‘their job’, that they needed no instructions or reminders.

So I stared at my ceiling most of the time, or out the window, my thigh propped on a pillow, my buttocks numb from my current restricted mobility, my back aching more than any of my broken parts, my heart and mind torn with thought and angst.

   

I was dozing off into oblivion again, when a phone started to vibrate.

“Phone!!” I yelled. Until I realized that my brother’s flight was yesterday, and my parents were at their friends’ for the evening.

I looked around me and saw my phone was at my bedside table, mute with a blank screen. The sound of the vibration grew louder and louder indicating that the source was in the room.

In a feeble attempt to investigate, I moved the first leg to support the second, wobbling and limping around my room following the sound of the vibration. The sound led me to my closet, I opened it and peered in. Rummaging through my clothes to feel a certain additional weight to the items in my hands. Then I felt something square like inside of my jeans; the jeans I wore to the memorial on the bridge. I poked my hand inside the pocket, and fished out the item.

A burner phone.

I inspected the phone. I have never seen this phone in my life, this did not belong to me. It was black and very impersonal, can be easily disposed of. It kept vibrating. I looked at the screen as it lit up: 1 new message.

Hesitant, I unlocked the phone and pressed on the messages icon. No previous messages only the one message. My heart sped up and hammered in my chest as I read a total of eight words;

Keep this with you. Will get in touch.