A new story thread

And then the phone ring and someone is telling me that they are my girlfriend and that they are so glad that I'm back to normal.

"Normal?" I say not knowing who the fuck I'm talking to.

And she goes on and on about how the last six months have been a complete hell, and that she's been practically living at the hospital, and that she's lost all of this weight because she couldn't eat, or get a good night's sleep, or think straight.

And I said, "Yeah. Tell me about it," and hang up.

And right now the ceiling looks a lot different than what I remember of it. Of course, I don't really remember it.

And that's when another headache starts. And my nose starts to feel like it is going to bleed again.

The phone rings again and I answer it because I can't remember who I'm supposed to avoid and who I'm supposed to embrace.

"Hello?" I say only half-expecting to hear an alarm clock and not another voice.

"Why did you hang up on me?"

"Sorry," I say, only half-meaning it, and I look back up to the ceiling.

"You know we should really get together tomorrow morning and talk," she says.

I say "Yeah" only because right now my words are on auto-pilot.

"I miss you," she says.

And I say, "Yeah. Me too," and then I say [I]goodnight[/I], or [I]I love you[/I], or something like that and hang up again.

And as I'm looking up at my ceiling all I can think is how I've got all of these people's burden's on my chest, and I still have to remember what my own are.

Several grunts and failed attempts later sitting up at the edge of the bed is accomplished.

On the table next to the phone is a business card.

It reads:

Coma Recovery Association, Inc.
Advocacy General Information Networking Referrals Support
Phone: [516] 997-1826 Hours: Tuesday - Friday, 10 A.M. - 3 P.M., EST

And in red bold font:

“We do not provide medical or legal advice.”

Guess they can’t help with theses stomach cramps then.

The other side is a name and number hand written. Jane Anderson 680-0557

These postcomatosed legs failed an attempt at walking, so crawling will have to suffice to get me to the bathroom to piss.

Sliding off the edge of the bed to the carpet there is a pulling sensation about waist high.

Running out from the pajamas crotch is a tube about a quarter of an inch in diameter and made of rubber.

Half way between the edge of the bed and the carpet the tube begins to dislodge itself from inside my bladder.

There is a distinct feeling inside my cock of my urethra being stretching open.

The tip of the catheter frees itself from my body and soaks my pajamas with warm piss.

The smell causes me to immediately vomit clear liquid onto my chest.

The ceiling and bathroom both mock me. To get even I piss where I lay.

What does it matter now? A few more ounces won’t hurt.

Lying on the floor, in my own piss, realizing that the piss is the least of my worries. The floor is covered in sandy dirt, mixed with mud and clay, and a thick layer of dust, which only gets thicker near the walls. My hand is on top of a few curly black hairs, which can only be pubic. The walls of the room are in need of a coat of serious paint, and there is definitely mold growing from the A/C vent in the ceiling.

Cobwebs hold long dead flies and gnats. The spiders may be dead also, caught in their own traps.

What kind of hospital is this?

I grab the edge of my bed rail. I try to pull myself up, but it's useless. I sink back down to the floor, and with my head to the floor I can hear the squeak squeak squeak of rubber soled shoes gliding down the hallway, getting closer.

A long ray of light hits me in the face. Harsh and grim. I try to focus my eyes, but it is pointless. I can't see shit. What feels like an eternity later, I zero in on the culprit's face. She is tall and slightly overweight. The words "big-boned" resonate somewhere in what's left of my mind.

"Look what you've done..."

I mummble a series of "I'm sorry" and "Please, I..."

The big-boned beast gets me on my feet and throws me on the bed. I hear her call for help. Three burly guys stomp into my room. And the next thing I feel is a needle on my hip.

"He's convulsing"

"We're going to have to shock him"

And the world suddenly doesn't matter anymore. I try to remember my girlfriend's name. I try to remember what on earth "I love you" means. And I drift, into a deep yet restless sleep.

(I must say, this story kicks ass! Keep it goin'... )

And the phone rings again.

"Who in the fuck is it?"

The thing about being in a coma is, you might forget about everyone who loved you, but you don't forget the important things in life, like how to swear.

"This is God calling," the voice says.

"No shit?" I say back thinking the morphine has finally kicked in. "What's God got to say about all of this shit that's gone on to me, huh?"

"Well actually, it's not God, you asshole. This is Larry. You know, your roommate."

"Damn," I say and look over to the liquid dropping from the resovior tube. "I was hoping you were God. I got some shit to settle with him."

Either there is silence on the other end or I just don't care enough to listen.

"Larry? What kind of fucking name is that anyways? What type of shit are you trying to pull? I wouldn't live with someone named Larry."

"Dude...that's uncalled for."

"You know what's uncalled for? Having a fucking tube stuck up your dick! That's uncalled for. I'm flopping around in a pile of piss and you're telling me that telling you that Larry is a shitty name is uncalled for?"

Right now my toes feel like my hands and my hands feel like the tip of my dick with a tube sticking through it.

I hold the phone to my ear just to hear the hum. Either he hung up or I did. Either way, the slow drone of the receiver mixed with the drugs sedates me back to sleep.

And I dream. If you could call this dreaming I mean. I feel entangled within a huge vine. There are memories here that I don't actually remember.

You know, like going back to your hish school reunion and seeing Perky Penny or Gloomy Glenda, but not actually knowing the names of these people who were your bestest friends.

I see a woman with a red apron on. She is taking something out of the oven. A giant stuffed bird. Maybe a duck or a turkey.

Funny thing about being in a coma, is that you never forget the important things in life.
Things like food.
Things like smells.
Things like sex.

I see a man, naked and slightly covered with a blanket. He is smoking a cigarette. I appear to be next to him with my hand on his stomach. Tracing his six pack. I feel confused and terrified.

The next thing I know the light hits me again.

And I think of the voice on the phone. My girlfriend.

And suddenly I'm freezing and terribly want a cigarette.

There are no cigarettes and no blankets other than this worn sheet bunched at the base of my bed. Pulling it up to cover myself takes longer then I could’ve imagined. Sweat drips into my eyes and the sheet is used to wipe it dry.

A lone sign hangs on the back of the door to my right. There are pictures of two people hugging and writing that I can’t quite make out. Straining my eyes to decifer the poster reveals that it’s about choking hazards and the Heimlich maneuver. The writing is still unclear. What the fuck is that writing? It’s, it’s fucking Spanish. Why would the sign be in Spanish?

What kind of hospital is this?

There is just enough room on each side of the bed for a chair and the two dingy tables.
I chuckle at how close the bathroom looks from here. I need to go again. This time I let the bag fill hanging off the side of my temporary home.

The side table holds a brochure pinned under the phone. It’s from the same company as the business card. Printed on the cheap tri fold paper is a bunch of stuff about survivors rights and therapy options, concerns and needs.

What I fucking need is a smoke and this tube out of my cock, so I can get out of here. Wherever here is.

I read this o the back page of the brochure.

Causes of coma
Coma results from one of two pathophysiologic mechanisms:
What the fuck are they talking about?

a diffuse insult to both cerebral hemispheres or a focal lesion involving the ascending reticular activating system (ARAS) located in the upper pons, midbrain, and diencephalon.

Okay. This means nothing to me.
A lesion in one cerebral hemisphere will not produce coma;

So, what will assholes?
bihemispheric dysfunction is required.

Great. What’s that?
In most studies of comatose patients, the "big three" causes of coma are stroke, cranial trauma, and drug intoxication.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Reaching up to check for the bandages I know are not there, a scene comes to my head.
I am in a bar with a blonde guy next to me; there are several brown skinned girls in tight dresses pressing in close. A tall one is pulling on my arm, urging me into a room behind the stage. There are couches and people are laying back, eyes closed, I see her face, smiling urging me deeper.

The squish, squish, squish out in the hall pulls me back.

Nurse?

{I'll write some on this later, but damn...I have to agree, this is getting good. BUMP!}

A man walks in and the shadows against his face make him look the way an person does during an interview when they don't want someone to recognize them.

"Who's there?" I ask, trying to sound sedated. "Nurse? Is that you?"

From the reflection of the television hanging on the wall behind the person I can see the outline of their back as they draws closer to me.

"Hello?" I call again.

This could be my father for all I know. Or my girlfriend. Or anybody else that I can't remember. But even though I can't remember a face to forget, this doesn't feel right.

I try and flip over so that I am facing the person walking towards me but the tube in my dick restrains me.

"Do you know who I am? the voice says.

And the way he says it makes me think I should.

"You don't sound like the normal doctor," I say trying to sound cool. "So no, I can't say I do."

"But you should," the voice says.

It's a man's voice, and it's deep, and that's about all I know.

"I've been in a coma..." I say and try my best to swallow despite my mouth having completly dry. "If I forgot you, don't take it personal, ok?"

I hear the click on the heels of his shoes and from his shadow against the wall he's has to be standing pretty close to the spot where I pissed the floor.

"But I'm not the type of person you forget, Stephen."

A long time ago, somewhere, somehow a door opened.

A long time ago, I could remember my life.

I'm dreaming again.

This time the man with the six-pack is more defined.

He has wavy brown hair and a slightly wrinkled forehead. He is smoking his cigarette seductively on what looks like a cheap motel bed. The kind with flower print blankets on it.

This man. I love him. Or I need him. I can't remember. What I know for sure is that he scares me. I am terrified.

The swear is pouring down my face now.

And somewhere a voice says.

"But I am not the type of person you forget, Stephen."

Not the type of person you forget? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Either this guy is a prick or either I'm a prick for forgetting. Regardless, pricks don't forget.

My mind is racing at a million miles per hour. Who the fuck is this guy? I can't even see him really.

The desk lamp is off. And he's illuminated by the light in the doorway.
If you don't have a vivid imagination-- I can't see the fucker.

And who the fuck is Stephen. Apparently that's me. Stephen.

And suddenly I am fucking terrified. Scared for my life.

The funny thing about waking up from a coma is that you never forget the important things in life.

Things like being afraid.

Fingers, short and fat, fumble for the switch at the base of the lamp. There's a click, and my vision goes all fuzzy-white in the light-flood that's been aimed my way.

Squinting makes me dizzy.

My muscles, atrophied from disuse, can't quite get my arm in the right spot to block the light.

And I'm done trying to turn over - my dick feels inside-out already from all the tugging.

Teary-eyed, then, and with a headache the size of the San Andreas, I wait for my pupils to readjust.

Fat fingers on my shoulder. "You recongize me now, you fuck?" His face is close enough to mine I can smell morning-old coffee on his breath. Even through the fuzz I can tell he's ugly.

“Aunt Em? Uncle Henry?”

I see the blur of his arm.

Smack

Everything is black and hot for two beats of my already pounding heart.
The imprint of his hand burns into my cheek

“Don’t be a smartass you fuckin’ prick.” He growls, leaning in, “You fucked up and this little coma bullshit ain’t gonna save your pathetic ass. You better get my fucking money and you better get it soon. You fucking cunt.”

I keep my mouth shut and stare at his face trying to place him, trying to place his blonde hair and light gray eyes. He’s talking again.

“...two weeks and you better have it. Two weeks asshole.”

He turns and leaves. That walk, that hair. I know this man. I’ve held this man. The bar, the back room, the little blue pills. Everyone hugging and rubbing on eachother, the girls in tight dresses, it’s all right on the edge of my memory. The burn of my cheek has faded but the memories of that night in the bar begin to grow.

{bump}

It had been too long since she had heard Stephen's voice. She would call over and over again. For months. Hoping he would pick up the phone and say, " What now, Mellie, what now?".

She was born Mellissa Anastasia Markow. She was Polish. According to her family that is. Her family, back in Hicksville, Alabama.

She was far from there now.

She was in New York. The city that never sleeps. She fit the image perfectly. Her day would begin around five in the evening. With a quick snort of anything she had lying around. On a good day, it was coke. On a bad day, it could be sugar or salt.

Mellissa had met Stephen back in 2003. She had just turned twenty two. At a party. In Brooklyn.

Stephen had offered to drive her home. And while she was coked-up and incoherent. Stephen still didn't seem like the best option.

But Mellissa succumbed. Stephen drove her home. And they fucked that night.

Fucked until both of them were raw and sober.

Two years later. Stephen was out of his coma. And suddenly Mellie, as Stephen would say, had to wake up and smell reality.

Walking through those filthy streets. Coked up and tweaked out. Mellissa realized she hated everything around her. Her family, Stephen and especially. Herself.

-NARS.

(Bump. People where the hell have you been?)

Dreaming doesn't usually hurt, but when a huge part of everything you can remember makes up, say, only a couple weeks worth of events that occurred directly before or after a coma, what else can you dream about?
No childhood memories.
No piggy back rides or skinned knees or mowing lawns.
No high school proms or frat parties awkward moments in the backseat of whatever you may or may not have driven around in college.
Not even sure you went to college.
Nothing but dull thuds and flashes of what pain looks like when your eyes have swollen shut. Memories of a coke sniffing girlfriend and her crappy apartment. Conjured up images of how your penis is eating itself from the inside out. Then the grip of your ribs like deaths fingers closing in on your lungs. Death’s knuckles cracking.

Awake.

Look at the calendar, it’s Tuesday.

There’s people around; four, maybe five.

Unable to speak. Can’t even move my tongue.

Unable to reach. Restrained.

Unable.

A pin prick in the neck or side or wherever.

Eyes close like the trunk of a Buick.

Dream.

*bump*
(thanks for reminding me, rkdaley)

Suggestion towards this new story thread. How about setting post limits on a story that way people know not to drag things on and on and know to keep things moving forward. Story builds up a middle then and has an end and you can jump into a new one. Just a thought.

[QUOTE=UbikRex]Suggestion towards this new story thread. How about setting post limits on a story that way people know not to drag things on and on and know to keep things moving forward. Story builds up a middle then and has an end and you can jump into a new one. Just a thought.[/QUOTE]
Good idea.... I'll start up another shortly, then maybe have it only open for a week or something.

(That's one thing about story threads. They always take off and collapse. The original story thread I started however long ago. The Velvet's. Now this one, which I really did enjoy. Hopefully, we get back on track soon.)

-Batman

[QUOTE=Federov](That's one thing about story threads. They always take off and collapse. The original story thread I started however long ago. The Velvet's. Now this one, which I really did enjoy. Hopefully, we get back on track soon.)

-Batman[/QUOTE]
I concur. If I am drunk enough one night I just might have to participate and ruin it.

getting back on track.

In this trunk the lack of light shines bright with familiarity. For months of "real" time my mind was simply an occiptal and temporal projector from every clip of memory that had entered my ears and eyes the enitre duration of my life. Childhood flowed like liquid through me until a quick reel change led me up to that moment in the bar when the lights went out and the film began to flicker soon after.

The trunk opens, and with this tape around my mouth, all I can do is hope for a future.

i remember a time when freedom wasn't a galaxy of hurt away, a time when the thought of reacting to the droning of my digital alarm clock didn't fill me with a ticking dread. Childhood seems like such a curse until adulthood opens its saloon door and kicks you in the ass.

i pray for a time, to nothing inparticular, i always imagined god to look like tom waits holding a warming glass of whisky to welcome you into the afterlife.

anyway, here it comes....