My mind had wandered even further than I that evening. My unrest bore the name Yvonne, a woman I had known and loved for most of a year. Unfortunately my love had gone unrequited. Twelve tiresome months had now passed and not a passionate word had passed my lips in the presence of my dearest, the affection I embodied was very much my deepest secret. I would be crushed should Yvonne ever uncover it. She would surely see me as weak - too weak to confess my love, I could only figure. A man’s gravest secret is without doubt his deepest regret. My heartache, my sorrow had now manifested in this melancholic depression leaving me bedazzled, looking to the streets for answers. On evening prior, Yvonne had confessed her decision to relocate her life to New York; the city of wonder, her parents preferred place of residency. I did not live in New York. In sad fact, New York was over 22,000 kilometres in disassociation, but it may have been a million. It became abundantly clear that I would not be a part of her new life. To confess my desire at this late date would be to admit my inadequacies, yet to remain silent would allow the personification of perfection pirouette into oblivion in a pas de zephyr (and not for the first time in my life, I must admit). This was the situation and, one way or another, to-night would find its resolve.

I approached a proud city crossing, the traffic lights erect and blustering their ability to exercise perfect control and distain, coldly ironic. A small congregate had gathered at the intersection waiting for their signal to cross. Peering about in despair I could not help but sneer at the couples, the men and women, out together. Their quiet whispers and unmentioned exchanges, arms around each other, defining that loving embrace that had eluded me for so very, very long. So happy, so assure. There was a story behind every coupling. They met through a friend, or a chance occurrence. My despondent state magnified my emotions, spotlighting my loneliness, like the smallest grape on the vine - black and bruised. Their happiness contrasted my despair and weighed it ever further upon my thoughts. My eyes weltered slightly as I sniffed quietly to myself. I feared I would never reach my unknowing acquaintance. Our time was quickly washing away. Ticking away. The cars veered through the intersection, each as impatient as the last. I inspected the thick body of traffic in hope that it would break, growing ever later.

The lights of the street, a misty mix of brilliance, flashed by me. My eyes seeped a salty sorrow. For a brief moment I considered returning home to avoid what would surely be an embarrassing display of heart-felt emotion. I was going to look a fool: why should I paint myself such colours? What good could it possibly do? My plan had been to sing my hearts song to Yvonne and leave the decision in her fragile hands. Far too long now had the burden been on me, to disguise my feelings and cloak my fear of rejection. I wanted no further responsibility. I wanted to wash my hands of the ability to make such grave changes in my life, and soon I would get the opportunity to do so.

Waiting impatiently for my signal to cross, still the intersection ticked and beeped at me, aping my ailing heartstrings. Suddenly my eyes bore witness to a flash of opportunity. Darkness fell from the murky depths of the traffic. A path, a narrow crossing I examined with caution. Waiting so impatiently. There was no traffic now, just the unknowing tick of the intersection. Poor Yvonne! I’d left her waiting far too long now, left everything far too late…

I held my breath and ran my fingers across my eyelids to deliver them of the salty nuisance. I checked the traffic in desperation, the gap need only be large enough for me to cross this damned street to reach my affection. I timed my leap into the street and beyond, into Yvonne’s waiting presence, leaving behind the ignorant couples and those less able to act as I.

I stepped from the gutter onto the fierce bitumen, making haste across the street. I quickly found myself toeing the line adorning its centre, as a momentary truck made it’s way past. Stepping confidently after the truck I could see the path ahead of me. The comfortable glow of the street lamps luminated my path. I would unmask my passion and bathe in relief. What a moment it would be.

I heard the muffled roar of an engine to my left, but paid it no attention, continuing the final steps off the street. In my expectant perception I had reached the curb, but in reality the car had hit me. I noticed my leg hovering before my face and the horizontal movement of the buildings as my body flew through the air, my mind now a haze, a shade of deep purple. By the time the car screeched to a halt my body had sprayed across the road; in two or more pieces I felt sure. Broken glass everywhere, my poor, bent frame, panic pulsing like a wildfire. My adrenal glads were charging my spent being, almost giving me the strength to stand up, before my efforts failed, gravity proving too much I fell to the bitumen like a helpless clump of jelly.

The cruellest spite of all was the intersection, springing to life, the red and green figures substituting with rapid enthusiasm. A few meddling persons found their way to my aid. The fierce pain of my leg was my first concern, which if nothing else kept my eyes closed. Then my concern portioned to my lungs, as I felt a dense liquid quickly filling my airways. My head fell back as the cloggy choke of blood blocked my mouth and nose. I heard a distant crash and ate peaceful death quietly amongst the broken glass and bright city lights in the cool autumn evening.

I now recall the story of a young boy who’s parents considered his disagreeable behaviour as demonistic possession, deeming Satan held his soul, as they were rather strict Catholics. An exorcism was performed on the boy, that seemingly cured him, but most incredible was his account of the experience. Whilst unconscious and having the “devil driven from his being” the boy dreamt of a dark warrior and a bright white soldier duelling. The incredible accuracy given regarding the facial features and the environment of the account was frighteningly realistic, the frenzy in their eyes, the sparks from their flailing rapiers, the grunts, the sweat, the panic and the very real sense of danger.

Two or perhaps three minutes had passed, and I tried to clear my head and relax until help arrived. Snapping to attention I sensed darkness and nothing more. I felt a light piercing my skin, it’s warmth familiar as if lying on a Spanish beach in summer, but my eyes were determined to remain closed and I tried not to fight it, my weakness was immense.

I heard voices. Two women. I could hear footsteps, their origin and resonance unfamiliar. They echoed loudly and seemed to approach from a reasonable distance, approximating a room of some great size typical of hospital wards. It befell my poor mental processes that I was no longer lying on the road, rather positioned in the corridor of such a place, as its distance suggested, but I paid it no further notice. It is peculiar how the imagination can conjure so exactly circumstances that are so incredibly detailed that they could easily be substituted for place reality.

I felt my arms tugged and pulled roughly; I noticed at once that I was almost completely naked, my concern covered only with a thin sheet. Hospital-white linen. I felt the breeze of the sheet being removed, and had I not been in such a lucid state I would surely have made efforts to carp. My attempts to voice my concerns were sadly unsuccessful. Perhaps I had been drugged or something such, which had left me in this calmed paralysis. At this stage I attempted to open my eyes and lay gaze upon my carer. My eyes too refused my commands, betraying my wishes to observe my surroundings and confirm my assertions. Only darkness could I perceive. I tried to imagine the pure white surroundings of the hospital. I imagined a bright glow engulfing my body and inhaled the unfailing purity it held, an exercise I had learnt almost a million years ago.

“Urgh… yuck,” complained a voice from a slight distance, stomaching a blobbing clump of vomit.

“What is it?” answered my nurse, still rubbing down and rearranging my arms and legs and chest.

“It’s just so creepy. I just can’t,” The words did not come as easy as I have laid them here, “I just can’t get used to this. It’s too, creepy. Yuck.” It wasn’t until a few moments of continued complaint had passed before a reply came.

“Try not to think about it. Don’t let it shake you up. Imagine something nice, like balloons flying into the sky on a spring afternoon.” Surely my nurse was the nice one, although this comment was followed with a chuckle and spoken with a wink I could not see. I felt secure in her hands, her voice soft and sweet just as Yvonne’s had been. She began to hum a tune… Yes it’s true-ew… I’m so happy to be stuck with you-ew…

Goodness me, I had completely forgotten Yvonne! Surely she had heard of my misfortune. She would be along soon enough. She would not have left me after such a serious accident that had left me hospitalised.

“I’m just afraid, you know. Like, one of them might wake up and grab me or something!” The girl sounded young and inexperienced, and was thoroughly repulsed to say the least. The sentence seemed peculiar, but this corresponded with my still unfamiliar surroundings.

“Believe me,” said my nurse, “I’ve been here for almost two years and never once have any of them woken up. Once their dead they stay that way, never you worry.” She made an uncaring fart sound with her lips and tongue. Spittle hit my eyelid and fell across my brow. Someone in the ward had died! I pitied not the ones who had to deal with the remains. No wonder such unrest nestled in her voice. The situation bread clarity in my thoughts, underlining my own mortality and I attempted to greet it with a concerned groan. My lips refused. Mild panic nestled in the forefront of my mind.

“See? Look,” begged my nurse of the other. She raised my head slightly and pressed hard against my lower lip with her thumb, cutting my teeth into the soft flesh of my lip as she did so. “Hello,” I said, in her exaggerated voice. Her manipulation of my mouth ventriloquised her voice, releaving the unsettled sister. “Have you heard the news? I’m dead. Drop dead gorgeous!” My lips continued to refuse my will, and it very quickly became apparent that something was extremely wrong. “Hey! You’re cute, what time do you get off? Alright!” Not my words, but the nurse laughed at the audacity of the situation. I tried to move my lips. I tried to move my head away in protestation. I tried in vain to lift my arm, to ward off the cruel sister who had made such fun of me. How dare she ridicule a sick man in such a way! Not to mention the poor dead chap in the other bed! The sheet was again casually placed across my body as a gentle pressure lay across my stomach.

“Once I finish dressing this one we’ll make up the face. That’s the really fun part.”

I wondered exactly to what make up she was referring. A grumbling fear spewed into my throat upon reflection of the conversation. Had I been confused for dead? My blood boiled with all the rage of a heaving ocean swell. My attempts to move and shout and shackle all fell short of any effect. I could not summon a single, simple gesture. Paralysed, and confused for dead. What was I to do? What would you have done? Hospital indeed. I might as well have been dead. The haunting echo of steps along the tiled mortuary floor lingered in my ears like New Year firecrackers looking for somewhere to explode.

The sheet was briskly ripped from my form and I was introduced to my burial outfit by experienced hands. My body danced clumsily as the thin paper shirt was placed under my chin and wrapped around my waist, the thin cloth slid along my legs and my makeshift pants were accordingly adjusted then painfully fastened. I was thrown onto my back with a thud at which time I believe I was knocked unconscious, the exact details become hazy, but I remember a dusty dry substance tickling my throat as I inhaled, or cold flat rock pressed hard against my face as I drifted back into unconsciousness.

-o-

I felt a bump. My vessel shuddered and shook. My breath was stagnant, the air stale and dank. Was this dying? But I could hear the living world nearby. The tweeter of birds and the kind voices of loved ones, or perhaps I only imagined these. Crying, tears and respectful silence. I could hear it all as I lay in my new timber home. My friends and family, Yvonne and her regret.

Dirt rasped the coffin lid as my grave was filled in. Shovel after shovel after shovel the noise became more distant. More than ever I wanted to yell and scream and contact the world of the living, but I was simply not able. The air grew colder and danker as the warmth of the sun was removed, cast into eternal darkness. I could feel the cushioning of the coffin through my burial clothes, the soft linen and the padded walls that lay against my unretracted arms. My sense of touch eventually became my only link to the outside world. The universe shrank to include the area inside my tomb but outside my body. The three inches of space - of life - that I had left. The wonderous, binary language of an echoless universe.

The air grew painfully thin, crushing my ribs with each breath. At the very least I resigned to the fact that I would die peacefully of suffocation. I passed out just from the effort of trying not to. I liken the experience as listening to sleepy jazz; blue and sulphur yellow, always whirling.

© 2001 R. W. Gordon. All rights reserved.