A Chance to Reappear

Chapter 1

The last thing I remember is flashing fluorescent lights. Well, they weren't exactly flashing. More just running past me at what felt like lightning speed. Everything was blurry through heavy, squinted eyes and the world was reduced to light, dark, light, dark, light, dark. I heard frantic voices, too. All shouting and crying, yet nothing sounded like any coherent language. It was all muddled and messy. But then the lights got darker and darker and the voices got fainter and fainter, and just like when you're falling asleep, I don't remember when I passed out.

/\/\/\

Before I was in the hallway of flashing lights, I was in the park, retching violently while on the swing set. It wasn't the most private place to die, but something about dying in a place that was supposed to bring joy and fun felt wickedly poetic. As I vomited, I didn't really regret what I had done, but I was scared. I just wanted to throw up, get it over with, and go to sleep, but something inside of me still wanted to fight, which is why I remember the ride through the hallway of flashing lights.

But now I'm here, exposed and freezing in nothing but a hospital gown and underwear, with so many tubes coming out of me I could be a comic book villain. (Let's face it: I wouldn't be the hero.)

It's funny how a room can be silent and deafening at the same time.

An analog clock adjacent to my bed ticks perpetually. The heart monitor follows the ticking, just a beat off. Mom, fast asleep, her breathing following the same rhythm. Tick, beep, breathe. Tick, beep, breathe. Tick, beep, breathe. The air conditioner kicks on in the window and just adds an angry whirring bass under the melody. I wave my hand lightly, as if I were the one conducting the orchestra, but eventually let my hand drop back into my lap.

It sucks being here.

It's only been a day, but I can't stand it. Mom has been fighting with doctors, trying to convince them to let me go home. Dad sides with the doctors, wanting me to stay in inpatient care for at least a week. I don't want to go home, but I don't want to be here either. I don't think I have a choice in the matter, unfortunately. They can't let a kid who just tried to kill himself run off into the forests of upstate New York.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Dad stands in the door frame, holding an umbrella. He doesn't look at me, just heads over to Mom, shaking her awake with no grace.

"Visiting hours are over, Cynthia," he murmurs, still avoiding any sight of me. "We have to head home. Zoe is waiting."

Mom stirs, tilting her head towards him, but she doesn't move. Her hand grips the blankets of my bed tightly, as if she let's go, she'll fall into some never-ending hole below her. Dad shakes her again, but more gently this time. She sits up, brushing her hair from her red, blotchy face.

"I can't," she whispers as if I can't hear.

"I think we should give him some space."

No eye contact.

"But the visitor policy says one family member can stay..."

"Cynthia, you won't be able to do that when he's in inpatient care."

Mom gives up, always afraid to pick battles because she never wins. She looks at me and I make direct eye contact but say nothing. She lays a warm hand onto mine, squeezing gently. I fight every urge I have to pull away, but a few seconds last too long. I panic. I pull my hand away. I turn to stare at the wall.