VOLT: YA Fantasy

by Dawn Brazil

  The lie is intruding on life. Or… life is intruding on the lie. Or…

  I push the intrusive memories of loss so far to the back of my skull, hopefully they’ll vanish amongst the thousands of electrical synapses in my brain. I reach over and entwine my fingers with Ryan’s.

  I peer at Ryan’s hand engulfing mine and smile. His touch is a warm cup of caramel coffee on a fall evening.

  When I cut my eyes toward his, I don’t see him. I see a black Hummer barreling toward us with a speed not ideal for stopping at a red light. The truck roars ahead with an anger that creeps into the marrow of my bones. It isn’t going to let us pass. It’s not going to stop.

  “San Diego. Stop!” Ryan’s arms flail wildly, trying to shield me from impact, caring nothing for his own safety.

  Tires protest their trip on the road, my heart slams into my ribcage, and my lungs reject the oxygen I attempt to fill them with.

  A thundering ricochet vibrates through the car as metal smashes into metal. Our small car catapults into the air and in the opposite direction from the one we were traveling. I scream as glass sears the delicate skin on my face and exposed arms.

  Pain fires through my back and around my neck as the force of the impact presses me into the tiny passenger side. The car rocks on its axle, intent on turning on its side.

  Ryan sits motionless beside me. A coppery smell rises and invades my senses. Blood. One of us is bleeding. One glance at him and he appears to be sleeping, though I know better. I don’t feel injured. Why do I smell blood?

  My contemplation of the blood is cut short as the car sways a final time. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as the car spirals and the world outside the car rolls over itself twice, landing us upside down.

  Pain once again shoots through me. The crash has awakened every nerve in my body, and I’m electrified like a live wire.

  The tumultuous echo of oinks in the distance sends shivers through me.

  I glance in Ryan’s direction. He’s silent, motionless beside me. Stretching my fingers as far as I can, I run my hand over his face until the peach fuzz under his chin rests in my palm. I tug his bobbing head back to the seat to hold him steady. It’s like I’ve attached twenty-five pound weights to my arms. The heaviness is slowing, but I press on anyway.

  The oinks demand to be heard. They won’t stop. They’re loud—menacing, even.

  “Stop, stop, stop!” I shout, shaking my head. “San Diego, stop.”

  The world falls silent.

  Agonizingly, I run my hand along the left side of Ryan’s face. A wet substance slides down his head and neck.

  No.

  I snatch my hand away and stare, hypnotized by the crimson death that covers it. His head lobs forward in mid-air. My breaths burst from my lips in heaves, like I’m forced to breathe through the smallest tube imaginable.

  I peer around us at the upside-down world. No cars zoom past, no people scramble around… but my heart races in my ears, drowning out the other noises—even the baby piglets. A splintering pain bursts in my head, like it’s been bashed with a bat. My eyes flutter as if they want to close. I strain to keep them open—to see his face for as long as I can.

  Ryan is unconscious. I reach for him with my dumbbell arms and rub my hand along the base of his throat, searching for his pulse to beat against my fingertips. The slightest pressure feels on them. I tug at my seat belt to release it. It won’t disengage, no matter how hard I push the button.

  I shift in search of my cell phone. One quick turn of my head shoots excruciating throbs through my entire body. I drive the pain away and keep searching. He needs me. I have to do this for him. Finally, I spot the phone a few inches away—on the ceiling, which is now the floor.

  I wrench myself forward but halt my movements immediately. Agonizing pains catapult from my back to my head.

  I squint over at Ryan. His breath comes in ragged intervals. San Diego, move your Alaska, Sam. This cannot be happening. Not again.

  A collection of stars fire across my vision. I shove the darkness away as it attempts to snatch my focus.

  Every second that passes is life or death for Ryan. I yank my body forward, tugging at the seat belt to navigate the area in front of me. My fingers extend until they wrap around the cool metal of the phone. I shout in relief. Ryan has been motionless for a few seconds. I bend to ensure he’s still with me.

  My breath catches in my throat as a black pick-up jets toward our car at a high speed. The tires squeal as the car attempts to stop and not collide with us. It’s too late. The driver can’t alter their course.

  “Oh God. No.”

  I snatch at the air for support and prepare myself for this second impingement. I can do nothing to help Ryan.

  I. Am. Useless.

  The impact of the colliding vehicles resonates like the detonation of a bomb. This new jolt rouses Ryan. His body shakes, teeth clattering.

  His head jerks up, then rests on his chest. “Pea,” he whispers in the stillness that gulps the car. “I’ll always be with you.”

  I can’t move to reach him. The second hammering smashed my body deeper into the sharpness of the twisted metal hatch. My words are whispers, the strength behind my voice pilfered by the aches coursing through me. I open my mouth to speak again, the only words I can— “Love you. Forever.”

  “Love you,” he murmurs back, tears streaming from his closed eyes.

  I watch in peril as his chest rises and sinks quickly. He takes a final, paralyzed breath and his chest falls flat. Tears obstruct my vision of him, and I’m powerless to wipe them away.

  Through the watery masses that flow, I see him.

  Unmoving. Silent. Lifeless.

  My eyes slip closed, and I welcome death. Peace washes over me like a foot soldier who slips into his rack at the end of a day’s battle. Ryan and I will be together forever. Just as we planned.

  As I am nearly consumed by death, her face, emanating light, emerges from the depths. My heart stills.

  Then, I am swallowed whole by the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  Month one

  The world is inside out. Pink-fleshed baby piglets carry enormous jagged-edged clouds across my mind. They don’t oink—they beep.

  My eyelids are heavy and no matter how I strain to open them, I can’t. “She looks like she’s sleeping.” A voice echoes around me.

  “Do you think she can hear us?” I can hear them, but my vocal chords are tied to my eyelids and refuse to function.

  I drift back to the beeping clouds.

  Month two

  I’m held hostage behind my closed eyelids still. My attempt to pull myself from my mind is a fruitless endeavor. “She’s in a vegetative state and could remain so until death.” The words reach me, but I have no idea whose voice utters them. I need to know who spoke. Except, my brain has ceased to control my other bodily functions. Or my eyes have decided to secede from the rest of my body.

  The clouds beckon again…

  Month three

  I’m thrust forward out of darkness. I gain control over one eyelid. It slips open and a chorus of colors startles it closed. Voices ring out around me and I’m not sure if I’ve heard them before. They don’t sound coherent, more like everything is funneled from another area to me. “It’s great you come every day. It’s vital for her,” a voice with a feminine lilt says.

  The weight of the world is lodged between the muscles and bones in my body. The desire to move, to open my eyes, devours even my need for rest. Despite the commands I give my body, my limbs refuse to cooperate.

  Fear tackles my vocal chords and I can’t even scream. My stomach slips into my throat.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Maybe I’m paralyzed and my body informs me in the most inhumane way possible—by thwarting all efforts on my part to use it.

  That explanation makes little sense. I should at least be able to open my eyes. I concentrate—focusing my attention to one particular body part. I pray it sti
ll functions. I strain with the sensation I’m gritting my teeth and exhausting energy.

  “Oh my God. Did you see? She moved her toe. Come here, look—she’s still moving them.”

  I strain to open my eyes, to see her. But again, like before, sleep advances to carry me away.

  * * *

  I’m falling into nothing. Twisting and turning, but still plummeting. Slipping and sliding past memories, shame, love, regret, people…

  My eyes open, and a blinding light from an open window obliterates everything. I shut them against the painful beams. The scent of lavender permeates the air, mocking me.

  Really, Universe, let me wake fully before you start your taunting.

  Voices emanate from every corner of the room. They speak in excited, hushed tones. The words collide into garbled, incoherent nonsense as it reaches my ears.

  Why are these people in the room with me while I sleep?

  I lift my arm to shield my eyes from the sun’s intrusive glare. An elephant’s weight is wedged in this one arm. It falls haplessly back to my side. I squint into the room. Only two other people are present: my mother and a tall, slender woman with long auburn hair. They stand against a far wall, whispering. The woman I don’t recognize wears purple scrubs. They examine papers fastened to a clipboard.

  My actions are simple. I don’t draw any immediate attention to myself. I need to determine where I am first. My eyes have never been a source of concern, but around me, everything’s foggy. Like I’m viewing the world through the lens of a murky camera.

  Using the bedrail for assistance, I shove my fatigued body up. My breath is ragged after the maneuver. I sit still for a moment to gather my breath.

  Once I get a wider view of my surroundings, it’s clear where I am. The linoleum floors, the large dry erase board with phone numbers scribbled on it, the huge window overlooking a parking lot, and the medical equipment are obvious clues to my whereabouts.

  I’m in a hospital. I have no idea why.

  “Why am I in a hospital?” I croak out. The voice exiting my body is feeble. My throat is parched, and my words are a murmur through barely parted lips. The click of my tongue against the roof of my mouth sounds strange. Foreign.

  Still, my mother turns so quickly she stumbles into the woman beside her, who appears to be a nurse. She has to grab onto the woman to right herself before she falls over. The nurse clasps her hands to her mouth.

  What the Houston is going on here?

  “Samantha,” my mother shouts. I blink several times at her. She wears no makeup on her pale skin, and her clothes are so wrinkled I’m certain she’s slept in them a few times. I’ve never seen my mother so unkempt.

  Not once in all the seventeen years of my life.

  I do nothing but stare at her for a moment. With wavy brown hair that extends past her shoulders, a perfect complexion—not a spot, blemish, or wrinkle in sight—my mother is beautiful. She has high cheekbones. I inherited those from her. She’s tall—standing an even six feet. I inherited her height as well. I did not inherit her grace. Even in the direst circumstances, she carries herself with an air of dignity I often envy.

  Right now, her large eyes, rumpled clothing, and dwindling frame are the epitome of degradation.

  She crosses the room in seconds and draws me in to a staggering embrace. I glance up, startled as something wet falls to my cheek. She’s crying. I pull back slightly to make sure I’m not hallucinating again. “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m happy…” She trails off, clearly meaning to say more, but shakes her head instead. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m sure you have a million questions.” She releases me, pulls out a handkerchief she happened to have in her pocket, and wipes her face.

  My attention is pulled to the floor as the click of a heel hits the linoleum. Then several clicks. A parade of baby piglets march from somewhere beyond the bed right into the hallway. Their pink flesh jiggles with each plod of their little cloven feet. I peek at my mother.

  “You saw that too. Right?” I ask. She squints past me.

  She shrugs. “Oh, my dear.”

  “Aww. Our girl is awake. I’m sure you have questions, m’dear. Ask away.” A squat, tanned man with salt-and-pepper hair speaks while entering the room. He has a strong southern drawl. “We’re extremely thrilled about your recovery.” As he draws closer to the bed, he smells as if he’s soaked himself in cologne before coming into the room.

  I swallow my need to gag. With a stethoscope in hand, I assume he’s the doctor. I loathe doctors. Except one, but she wouldn’t work at a hospital like this.

  The repugnant-smelling doctor draws the stethoscope closer to me. I flinch as he places the cold instrument to my chest. He smiles at me as if I’d told him how amazing he smells. My dislike for him builds by the second.

  “Why am I here… in the hospital?” I inquire. Everyone gazes at my mother as soon as the words escape my lips.

  “Sweetheart, let Dr. Anthis complete his examination first.” My mother walks to my right side, opposite the doctor, and rubs a hand through my thick hair. “We’ll talk about everything soon. Promise.” Her placating tone works my nerves.

  Why would the doctor’s presence impede a conversation she should have initiated as soon as I opened my eyes? I steel myself and wait. Except patience isn’t my strongest attribute, so I clench and unclench my jaw in anticipation.

  Dr. Anthis listens to my lungs with his icy stethoscope. Something about this situation does not bode well with me. I’m severely uninformed about something important. Everyone in the room is privy to this information but me. They cut their eyes to me, but glance away when I return their glares, like they might want to reveal something but really they’re playing a collectively nauseating game of guess-what-the-Florida-we’re-hiding-from you.

  It’s annoying as Florida.

  Chapter 4

  Once Dr. Anthis completes his examination, I glance around for Mom. She’s huddled with two other women I hadn’t seen when I first woke. “Ma dear, you are in excellent condition,” Dr. Anthis states. He glances at my mother, winks, and nods once. My mother wrings her hands together and forces a half-committal smile in my direction. I frown at her. She drops her facade.

  More visitors arrive, and my mother has abandoned her promise of an explanation. I press my lips tightly together to bar stupidity from exiting. It’s a difficult task when words are generally my weapon of choice.

  The parade of people coming is ridiculous. More than half are friends of my parents, not mine.

  I’m an excellent athlete, which affords me a large number of unsolicited BFFs, many of whom are only pretending to be my friend. I figured out long ago. Most people won’t admit they don’t like me because of how well I play: basketball, volleyball, tennis, track. But I know.

  It’s in the apprehensive way they say my name. It’s how they invite both Ryan and me out. Never only me. It’s in the cold glare when they think I’m not looking. It’s in the way they plot to kill me. Even with all that, they clamor to me. Stumbling and stuttering to see what I wear, to do what I do, talk like I talk… it’s all ridiculous.

  Of course, I bought into my own popularity for years. I’m not feasting from the social buffet anymore, though. The universe forced me to evaluate everything I’ve ever believed. A few of my fans fell off after that.

  I’m okay with it, though. Ryan’s my best friend and he’s more than enough. That’s the problem with society—everybody’s greedy. They want more of everything. How in the Houston can you juggle eight best friends? You can’t.

  And… I’m bored out of my mind.

  As visitors arrive, they take a fleeting look in my direction, make a hokey signal, or smile like idiots, and gather in a muted circle with my mother and anyone else present. I’m not invited or privy to the information exchanged during these hush sessions.

  But I’m fully aware they are about me.

  A scream titters precariously on the tip of my tongue. Except it won’t rele
ase, because my exhausted body can’t handle the build-up of pressure required to discharge it. Still, glancing at these adults who accidently-on-purpose ignore me, sends the word-vomit barreling toward my lips.

  I disdain how adults pretend their issues are more serious than teens’. If you’re under twenty, you shouldn’t complain. Why can’t my emotional distress be on par with yours? Because I’m not old enough to have my heart ripped from my chest. Bull-San Diego. My San Diego looks like your San Diego. Don’t invalidate how I feel because you’re too tired from the job you hate to handle it.

  Right now, I want to shout at the lot of them: Stop acting like Alaska-hats and tell me what the Florida is going on.

  A sharp screech rises from the hallway. Everyone in my room leaves, I assume to investigate. Once the room is clear, the only sound is the constant beep of the machines beside me and the occasional oink.

  I blink several times, trying to contemplate the exact level of crazy I currently inhabit.

  My dad walks into the room. True elation floods me for the first time since waking. He’s taller than Mom and me, and has a small afro running away from his hair line. I love him to life.

  “Dad.” Racing into a giant embrace is what I want, but my fatigued body can’t handle the movement. As he makes his way to me, my eyes dance across his slender brown face. I can count on my dad to tell me the underlying cause of things, since no one else seems intent on giving me any answers.

  “Hey, Pea.” He plants a soft kiss on my forehead. “You’ll come out of this okay. Death is hard on us all.”

  I blink several times. “What? What the Florida are you talking about?”

  “Wow. Are you using language like that openly?”

  “Sorry. I need answers. Didn’t mean to swear.” I actually did, but whatever.

  “You’re here to get better. We can talk about the unpleasantness later.”

  My lips almost part in a laugh. Almost.