by Celia Crown
I got into an accident when my jet malfunctioned in the air and it crash-landed on an isolated mountain area. It’s better than a densely populated area. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself for hurting those innocent people.
Being in a coma for more than a year, my soul and physical body have separated to maintain balance as the coma continued to take little pieces of me.
I wouldn’t believe in a high power if this phenomenon hadn’t happened, but I should thank this event for letting me meet the love of my life.
“Hello, child,” my mother speaks softly. She is careful to not disturb the noisy beeping of the heart monitor beside my bed.
“Today, your father and I have decided that we want to dance in our garden,” her smile is warm, and my chest fills with stormy emotions.
“He thinks he can hide his plans from me, but you know your father,” she chuckles with wrinkles creasing at the corner of her eyes, “He cannot lie to me; he is such a terrible liar when he faces me.”
My father is a terrifying tycoon that runs his company with fierce strictness, but he is mellow with my mother. No one could explain the shift in his demeanor when he sees her, but the love he holds for her transcends everything in the world.
He can watch everyone burn to hell, but if mother has a cut from her gardening, he would have a team of medical doctors on sight to make sure she doesn’t contract any poisonous spores.
“It’s our anniversary today, and he wants to do something special with me, but that man cannot plan a surprise for the life of him. I love that about him; he does not need to be perfect and every flaw he has is a reflection of what he is doing to better himself.”
She hums a small melody that has been my favorite since my childhood. I find that it’s comforting to hear something other than the monotone heart monitor.
“You know that piece of art you gifted me?” she extends her hand and strokes my hair.
It was a digital painting that was animated. I had it created to bring alive the beauty of their wedding dance. I didn’t want to use the videos that were filmed, and digitally sharpening them would do no justice to my mother’s beauty.
My lawyer’s daughter was a big fan of an artist that had a massive fan base; the art is always genuine and done in the ways that reflect the buyer’s taste. I left the details of the contract up to the lawyer, but I made sure to pick the best pictures that my mother had in her collection without her knowledge.
It was supposed to be a surprise.
I never had any contact with the artist through email or in-person; everything went through my lawyer who had drafted the papers to my standards of privacy. The repercussions were clear and serious if the artist attempts to make money off of photographs of my mother or use the Stanton name for notoriety.
The artwork came two months later.
Never have I felt such interest and awe towards a style of art that was not traditional paintings. When the painting on a thin screen of technology moves, it’s hypnotizing with a wash of realism that is disconcertingly spectacular that had left me speechless.
The artist had paid attention to details because no one knew of the mole behind my mother’s left ear. She was always self-conscious of it and she wanted it to get it lasered off, but she had grown to accept it as a part of her that my father had fallen in love with when he would kiss her ear subconsciously.
I had paid the artist generously with a bonus that was half of the art piece’s price.
My mother had fallen in love with the style and she wanted to meet the artist, but my lawyer had stated that the artist wished to remain anonymous as it is part of her brand.
The lawyer let it slip that it was a woman.
Now I remember the art piece; it’s definitely the work of my Jackie. Life works in mysterious ways and we were connected before I even had this accident that brought me to her. Maybe the painting had given me a lasting imprint that I wanted to meet her, and I did with circumstances beyond my control.
“The painting,” my mother whispers, “It stopped working when you went into a coma…”
Her lashes flutter as she blinks away her tears, “Then a miracle happened. It moved today, and I just had to come to see you.”
Somewhere in me, Jackie is the force that pushes me to make the final step that I need to stop this endless loop. I am here and I want to take control of my life again. I don’t want to fight with fate when I know I will lose more than my life.
Jackie is waiting for me. I promised her that I would go home to her, and I will keep that promise.
Her eyes darken. She clears her throat and dabs her tears with a handkerchief, “The doctors had the audacity to say that after being in a coma for so long, the chances of you waking up are slim.”
It is not uncommon; coma patients’ bodies shut down quickly without the care of doctors and it’s often beyond the professionals’ expertise to help them.
The aching in me synchronizes with the heartbeat that I hear.
A doctor comes in with white coat and black-rimmed glasses. “Hello, Mrs. Stanton.”
“Doctor,” she says, hope filling her voice as she watches him take my chart to scan it and look at my vitals at the monitor.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stanton. Your son has not had any progress.”
Absolute horror breaks her calm façade as she sobs into the handkerchief; it dampens with her tears and her shoulders shake uncontrollably. The wailing is heartbreaking and unintelligible, but her emotions are felt through me.
A spike in the heart monitor catches my attention and my mother’s head jerks up, “W-what is going on? What is happening to my son!”
“I don’t—” the doctor pauses; he stutters out a command to the nurse by his side when the cord attached to my chest begins to flatline as it stops picking up sound and movement from my heart.
Fear strikes in me; a scorching pain scratches the surface of my skin as I watch the line becomes steady with futile efforts to revive me.
I don’t think. I act on instinct when I flash towards the prone body to touch—to do anything but stand there and hope for the best. I need to do something because this is going to be the end of me with no way back if I don’t—
Everything goes to black.
It hurts to breathe; it stings when I open my eyes, and it throws everything off balance when the smell of death takes shape in my lungs through the tube shoved down my throat.
I cough, wincing in pain and nothing feels right. It’s as if I’m not fitting right in my own skin. The needle pricks at the vein that was jabbed into.
Hands try to soothe me, but I don’t want to be touched and my skin burns with a pair of hands made of rubber.
My eyes snap open; disorientation rocks my vision as the white ceilings sway with the face of the doctor hovering over me with my mother’s fading blonde hair at the corner of my eyes.
“My baby!” she cries in relief.
Her voice is extra-loud with an echo of her voice bouncing around my throbbing skull. Dealing with a flashlight in my eyes, the thick tube in my throat, and the soreness in my bones is overwhelming.
The machine beeps louder when my hand, despite the pain and the needle stuck there, comes up to my mouth and yank the tube out recklessly. Coughing up what I think is just a massive amount of saliva, I shoot up from the bed with my body groaning in protest.
My eyes burn from dryness, and my mother’s arms are around my neck to hug me with tears soaking through the thin hospital gown.
I’m naked underneath it and I have never felt more disgusted; it’s degrading no matter how practical it is for the doctors to cut it open if anything happens during my coma.
“My baby,” my mother repeats with cries of my name into my shoulder.
I look down on my hands, curling my fingers into fists and heightening the pinches of pain when my nails dig into my palm. Disbelief crawls in my stomach; I can feel the air particles and I don’t know where to start to digest all of this.
; “Mr. Stanton,” the doctor calls.
I ignore him. This new revelation is more important than his questions about my health. The coma must have done some damage on my body, but I can work back to my prime health within weeks.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Fine,” my throat is tight and dry as I attempt to swallow.
My mother scrambles to grab a cup of water from her side without letting go of me. I let my mother fret over me and I nuzzle my face into her familiar scent as she cries even more at the subtle motion.
The doctor asks me more questions and I answer them the best I can, but when it comes to physical exams to determine whether my body can handle waking up so abruptly. He determined that he has never seen anything like my condition. I may be a bit physically weak, but I’m mentally all there unlike the cases he had where patients were out of their minds when they woke up.
“Discharge me,” I demand, my hand ripping the needle from my vein.
My mother gasps and the nurse take away the needle before it gets into someone. The doctor reprimands me for doing that and I ignore him.
He can’t keep me here, and I know my body better than he does. I feel fine once I have got some blood running through my limbs and moved them to get the flexibility back, and it’s as if I haven’t been in a coma for one second.
“Mother,” I call while turning my head to look at her red-rimmed eyes.
Happiness overflows with her ears, “Oh, my baby. I’m so glad you’re alright.”
“I missed you, mother.”
She laughs with a sob; her makeup is ruined, but her beauty remains intact, “I missed you so much… I need to call your father—”
“Can you do something for me?”
She nods vigorously, “Of course, anything for my boy.”
“I need a black suit and a silver tie.”
Her eyebrows curl in confusion, but she doesn’t question it. My mother has never second-guessed anything I do because she knows I can take care of myself I want her to be proud of me when I make the decision that best benefit me.
In her eyes, I will always be her little boy even when I’m a grown man with my own life.
“I will have your favorite brought here,” she fishes out her phone, tapping on it before speaking on it in French.
My father’s side is French, and my mother always had a thing for French men so she learned French just to hear if the men she has been with are speaking ill about her. My mother was the devil when she was young, and she held onto that part of her well into her matured years.
The doctor has determined that I would be fine if I don’t do any strenuous activity, but I don’t listen to him. When the door closes, I throw the blanket over and step on the floor where there is a pair of hospital slippers for me to put my feet in.
Thank god that the back of the nightgown is not open. My ass does not need to feel the disinfected air while flashing my mother who is on the phone.
I test out the strength in my legs and I’m walking around the room in no time. The muscle memories are quick to come back as I get used to walking. My body moves and cracks any air bubbles in my joints. I flex my arms and my back with a groan.
Getting used to the soreness from the coma is not easy, but I conquered it by the time my father came in with my clothes. He instructed his bodyguards to stand outside while he comes in with the door shut behind him.
He embraced me with force and his emotions are thick in the way he hugs me. I return his hug with my mother clustered to our sides, and we have one family reunion hug that gets her sobbing again.
“Welcome back, son.”
“I’m back.”
We talk to catch up on the things that I have missed while they give me time to get used to being in my body again. I didn’t tell them that I was practically a ghost for almost a year and they don’t know about Jackie, but they will soon once I get dressed.
My suit clings to me as a perfect fit, and it is exactly the same when the suit is sinking into the groves of my muscles as a layer of a second skin. The tie sits in front of my chest and down the middle as I button up the suit jacket.
“My handsome boy,” my mother coos, her eyes are beginning to tear up again as she fixes my tie.
“Mother, you don’t need to cry. I’m right here—awake and still your stubborn son.”
“You are stubborn,” she readily agrees with a smile while my father chuckles at her side, “It comes from your father, and it makes me angry that you do not have a single gene of mine.”
My mother is a gentle soul with a heart of gold; she sees the good in everyone while I am the total opposite. I do not see anything but evil and ulterior motives when I meet someone, and it is written in my genes.
I didn’t trust Jackie when I first met her and that was all through innate genetics, and it’s not Jackie’s fault even when she looks like she can never hurt a fly.
“Mother, father,” I turn, straightening up my spine and looking them both in the eyes.
“I want to get married.”
My mother’s eyes brighten with glitter reflecting those green specks in them. My father’s face warps into surprise. This has been a concept that I have avoided for years. I hated the idea of marriage and being tied down with someone I know I will not love.
“What changed your mind?” my mother asks, breathless as if she’s holding back from bombarding me with questions.
“I met someone,” I say, my lips spread with a smile as I think of her pretty little face, “Her name is Jackie. She’s the artist that made your most cherished present.”
They are delighted for me, but I do not have time to stand here and tell them the details. I have a particular girl to sweep away, and she’s not going to be happy when I will be there to make sure she eats all the colors of food.
My parents let me go after promising to check in with them every hour.
I had no plan on how to meet her for the first time in the flesh, but I just want to be able to touch her. I crave that the most and I will break down every obstruction in my way. Traffic is a pain in the ass when I’m in a hurry.
Running through traffic lights and honking at every idiot on the road to move the hell along has me kicking my feet impatiently in my car. It’s weird to drive again and I suddenly remember how much I hate people in the city.
I get to Jackie’s apartment and mine. I have started calling this place home a long time ago. I knock on the door loudly.
Jackie gets too consumed into her work that she hears nothing until she deems it is time to cancel her selective hearing for the day.
She answers the door without looking or asking who it is, “Oh, Eli. What took you so long? I was about to start the movie without you.”
Jackie doesn’t notice the difference in me; the suit, the physical body of a man more than twice her size, and the overall presence that is not transparent anymore.
“Jackie,” my voice is deeper, growly and huskier.
That stops her in her track as I close the door behind me. I follow her to the living room where she turns and stares at me with confusion in her eyes. She trains her eyes on me and she’s bothered by the difference that she can’t put her finger on.
“You look different,” she muses quietly, “Did you get too much sun that you tanned?”
“Come and find out,” I lift my hand and motion her to come to me.
Her feet obey and she’s in front of me. It takes everything in me to hold back to let her discover this new me.
She squints at the grey tie, tilting her head as she lifts a finger to poke my chest. Jackie thought it would go through from the startled expression that surfaced as her finger lands on solid muscle.
“What the—”
Her eyes flash up at me and I strike with the speed of a snake. Grasping her face, warm and soft just as I imagined and slam my lips over hers.
Sweetness burst through my sense; the feminine scent of her shampoo, the frailness of her pink skin,
and the shuddering breaths she takes to conquer her confusion.
I kiss her with everything I have got; air is not a problem as I devour her soft lips, biting them and spreading her teeth with my tongue. A more concentrated sweetness burst through me as her little tongue meekly pushes mine in uncertainty or a subconscious effort to get away from the foreign muscle.
“E-Eli?” she gasps, her voice peaks in volume as it turns into a squeak.
“Jackie,” I murmur on her wet lips, nibbling on the swollen flesh as addiction courses through me.
I can’t stop kissing her. I’m not capable of pulling away as she fists my suit with her hands and tipping her toes to return my affection.
“You’re here…” she ponders out loud, eyes wide with amazement as she gazes into my green ones.
“I’m yours,” I whisper, “I came back for you.”
“But—”
I’m sure she has many questions, and I will answer them to her satisfaction. I just don’t believe this is the best time because our lips are finding each other again as she wraps her arms around my waist.
Her body is shaking and the jittery giggle from her lips spill with the tears in her eyes.
“Mine,” I breathe her name after, “You’re mine, I’m not letting you go.”
“I love you.”
Neither of us knows who said it first, but it’s a repetitive broken record after that.
Epilogue
Jacqueline
Six Months Later.
“Eli is a real person.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you!”
The puff of air in me gets knocked out at how unbelievable this situation is. Eli stands next to me with his hand kneading my neck to loosen the stressed muscle with his magical fingers, and he finds this conversation amusing when I’m having a hard time making Danni believe what she’s seeing
“He’s real!” her spotted hand cups her mouth as she gawks at him.
“Yes, that’s what I said!”
I know my Eli is a handsome devil in his Dormeuil suit, but does he have to have a closet filled with custom-fitted thousands of dollar suits? I can hardly move when I first saw his bedroom because I was scared that I would dirty it if I blinked wrong.
