Colin M. Johnson's Fiction - Short Stories

"BREAKTHROUGH"

by Colin M. Johnson


      I can still see and hear everything quite clearly.   I can smell the atmosphere around me too, all pungent and medical, seasoned with occasional wafts of meat and gravy - a taunting luxury to which I'm no longer entitled.   Normally I'd complain about such deprivation, but not while I remain isolated, a million miles from home, in this cosy self-centred world I seem unable to share.

      It was a dark grey car, I remember - a noisy, aggressive beast that came thrusting its hard unwelcome nose into my life - five, six, maybe eight months ago - I don't know how long.   No-one's bothered to tell me.

      I'm not in any physical pain.   The real agony lies much deeper - a desperate, unending loneliness, fast becoming unbearable - and I'm so sick of white.   White uniforms, white walls, white curtains!   I know every inch of that damned ceiling too, every mark, every crack, every imperfection left by the plasterer's trowel.   You've no idea how much I've grown to hate that damned ceiling.

      I ought to feel safe here, but my biggest fear is of some sorely overworked doctor sidling up to my bedside and pronouncing me dead.   Of course, not having any previous experience of death, I guess I'll be something of a novice when it happens.   It's inevitable, I know, for each of us in turn, but my turn hasn't come yet, not while I can still hear my heart banging away inside my chest like an executioner's drum.   And they all know about that.   They keep bringing students in to watch my pulse-rate on the machine.

      But lately I've started wondering - maybe this is how death actually feels.   I mean, how's a girl supposed to know, unless God makes a point of sending four winged angels to the corners of my bed, announcing: "Andrea, congratulations, my child, you finally snuffed it."

      I can't feel anything, but I know my body's still here, if one can call this lump of numb jelly attached to my chin a body.   After all, that bulging bag of saline drip-feed must be flowing somewhere - though it beats me why a useless jelly needs nourishment.   It's fat enough already, like I've had my head transplanted onto some huge soup-filled balloon.

      And I do wish students wouldn't come and stand at the foot of my bed, gawping and waving their stethoscopes, discussing my case as if I didn't exist, denying me even the courtesy of eye-contact.   I've tried blinking, but my lids don't seem to be wired to the same circuit as my brain.   They flicker sometimes, I know that, because one of the new nurses got quite excited when she noticed.   But the others just mocked her, saying it meant no more than the twitching of a dead insect.

      I'm probably wet again, though we shan't know till they come and investigate.   Then we face the rigmarole of mock baby-talk as I get my nappy changed.   Don't they realise I used to be a nurse?   Don't they teach the first principles these days about how to treat even comatose patients with dignity?   Too busy, I expect.   Insufficient N.H.S. funds to provide traditional care.   Nobody seems to care here, except me, and I can't bloody well do anything about it.   I can't even scream.

      I wonder if there's any truth to the idea of psychokinesis.   I'd like my curtain drawn back a little.   They pulled it across yesterday when the sun was in my eyes, but today I'd really appreciate a glimpse of blue sky.   I'm also racking my brains to recall what I once read about these so-called out-of-the-body experiences.   Even if it is pure mumbo-jumbo, what have I got to lose?   There's no harm in trying, and I'm sick to death of this in-the-body experience - believe me, anything's got to be better than this.

      I remember a book by Shirley Maclaine describing a silver cord that connects a travelling soul to its earthly body.   I confess as a nurse I'm curious to know what it's made of - probably similar to the umbilical cord attaching a foetus to its placenta - only I think this one stretches for ever.   That sure is some powerful elastic, though she warns if it happens to break, then that's your lot.   Snap it, and by all accounts you snuff it.

      Hallo, what's this?   People coming?   Another ward round, I suppose.   Arrogant doctors strutting from bed to bed, wreathed in dutiful smiles like the Queen, though I reckon if she came visiting she'd be more compassionate than this lot - or Princess Diana, God rest her soul - she was once a nurse like me - I'm sure she'd have spared a few minutes to stop and hold my hand.   But not this lot!

      I can see someone now out of the corner of my eye.

      "Andrea?   Do you hear me?"

      Yes, of course, I can hear you.   I just happen to be paralysed, that's all.   What did you expect from me?   A smile?   A nod?   A grunt?   Morse code flickering on the eyelids?   One flick for yes, two for no?   I'm willing to give it a try, but you'd better lay down a few ground rules.

      The voice drones on.   "Someone said they thought she could move her eyes.   False alarm, I'd say.   I don't suppose she even knows we're here."

      But I do.   Damn and blast it, I can see you and I can hear you - and if you were a clairvoyant with half a brain we could have a nice friendly chat.   Trust me, I've got all the time in the world.   Go on, you lazy eyelid, show her there's still some fuel on the old fire.   Damn, she's now looking the other way.

      "Still no progress, I'm afraid.   And we need the bed most urgently."

      Stiff male voices full of pompous authority.   "Hm!   No next of kin, as far as we know.   All right, I'll sign the initial order this afternoon.   We'd better move on.   Who's next?"

      That's it then?   Case dismissed?   I see I'm not wanted, you've made that bloody clear.   Okay!   If a hospital bed's worth more than its patient, come back and switch me off.   I'd even do it myself if I could reach.

      Hey, this is new.   It seems I can.

      "Andrea?   I know you can you hear me."

      A deeper voice this time - much kinder too, though I don't see anyone there.

      "Yes," I shout joyfully.   "Of course, I can hear you.   More to the point, can you hear me?"

      "Of course we can, Andrea.   We've heard you all along."

      Suddenly I can move my head.   I can sit up.

      Impetuously I leap out of bed, and hurry in bare feet across the ward towards the doctors, shouting: "Look - I'm cured.   Hey, you dumb-faced medics!   Turn around, see for yourselves.   Is this a miracle or what?"

      No-one takes the slightest notice.   I offer them the chance of a lifetime to witness a major medical breakthrough, and they muff it.

      As they move on I follow, so excited at my own recovery I scarcely notice how easily I can pass through closed doors and into the next world.

THE END


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Except where specifically noted, all music and stories on this web site are my own creations.   You may not use any of them for any purpose without written permission from me.     Copyright © 2003 Colin Johnson     All Rights Reserved.