Text copyright © 2019 by Paul Tremblay

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  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

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  eISBN: 9781542043632

  Cover design by Will Staehle

  001

  Your room is dark. You cannot see anything. You are lying in a bed. A sheet covers your body. You wiggle your fingers and toes, and the loud rasp of skin rubbing against the sheets is startling. With the slight movements there is pain. Your muscles and joints hum with it.

  You’ve been awake and not-awake for days, maybe weeks, perhaps longer. You do not know where you were then, or before then. You are here now. A significant amount of time has passed, but from what beginning you do not know. You consider the origin of this time during which you’ve been awake and not-awake and conclude it is, for the moment, unknowable.

  You listen. You blink. You might see shapes within the darkness but you can’t be sure. Your breathing quickens and so too your heart rate. You are becoming more of yourself. You are confident in this; time is no longer your enemy, and the longer you remain awake, the longer you can stay you. You are buoyed and terrified by this thought.

  You briefly drift and imagine a brightly lit room with a white ceiling, wooden floor, and yellow walls the color of a flower; you cannot yet think of the specific flower. You dismiss the random images and instead perseverate on your inexplicable dormancy. There is a sense of time having passed, however, which implies your consciousness had enough awareness within that missing time to be aware of itself. You were you, and you are now you.

  You attempt to sit up, contracting your stomach muscles and pushing off the bed, your weight held up by elbows and hands. Sharp, electric pain splits you down the length of your spine and radiates into your tremulous limbs. You cry out. The pain is incapacitating, all-consuming, setting off white jagged flashes in your vision and then taking root inside your head. The pain is a giant wave that threatens to wash you away. You do know what a wave is but you cannot remember if you’ve experienced one firsthand.

  You’re afraid to turn your head or to move at all. You’re afraid of the darkness, the utter lack. You’re afraid of receding, shrinking away to nothingness, to wherever you were before. You’re afraid you are caught in a loop: you’ll go away only to later wake again in blind agony, and then return to unconsciousness, and then wake to agony, again and again.

  There is a mechanical blip, and the hum and whir of machinery. Warmth flows into the back of your left hand and up the length of your arm. Your consciousness recedes toward the singularity that you fear.

  As you slide away, a voice that is not yours echoes through your nascent universe.

  She says, “You will feel better. There will be less pain. I will take care of you. We will begin tomorrow. Get some rest.”

  005

  Good morning, ______.”

  “Good morning, Dr. Kuhn. Are you inside the room with me today?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Oh. I am disappointed.”

  “I am sorry. Isolation is a necessary precaution, given your compromised immune system, but it is not permanent.”

  “I see. By that I mean, I understand.”

  “Yes, of course, ______. On a scale of one to ten, with one being no pain at all and ten being the worst pain imaginable, are you experiencing any pain this morning?”

  “One.”

  “Are you certain? You are pain-free?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, ______. Please flex your arms, legs, shoulders. Good. Please perform a pelvic tilt. Thank you. Did you feel any pain? If so, please use the same number scale I previously described.”

  “I’m still a one. If you can see me, I’m testing the muscles on my face with a big smile.”

  “I am glad you are no longer in pain.”

  “When I first woke up, that pain—well, it’s difficult to describe pain, isn’t it? Pain is such a subjective experience, but that pain made me think I was alone, or maybe that I wasn’t even me.”

  “I am sorry you experienced that.”

  “That is what a ten on your pain scale represents, I think. It was horrible.”

  “You are progressing wonderfully. You are enunciating your words much better than you have been previously.”

  “I think I forgot what ‘enunciating’ means.”

  “You are pronouncing your words correctly, fully forming the plosives and hard consonants. Your speech pattern is more clear and conversational.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I blind or is the room dark?”

  “Do you remember asking me this yesterday, and the day before?”

  “I do.”

  “For the moment the answer is still both.”

  “Both?”

  “The room is dark. Your eyes also have yet to fully respond to treatment.”

  “Will I be able to see eventually?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember that I used to be able to see.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I remember the ocean. I remember a yellow room.”

  “What else, ______? Is that all? You were able to recall many more things yesterday.”

  “I wish you would ask me what I remember about specific events or images as opposed to the general ‘What do else do you remember?’ It is difficult to answer that nonspecific question.”

  “I understand your frustration, but our conversations are part of your overall therapy and will help you.”

  “I see. By that I mean, I understand.”

  “What else do you remember, ______?”

  “I remember pennies have a distinctive smell, but I don’t remember the smell. I remember rain. I remember living in a small, brown house with a tree in the front yard.”

  “As soon as you regain your sight, I will show you a picture of that brown house.”

  “Will the tree be in the picture? I don’t remember what kind of tree it was. I am familiar with many kinds, like birch and fir, but not all kinds.”

  “It was a crab apple tree. Do you remember anything else?”

  “I think I remember you. From before. Yes, I remember you from before. Isn’t that right, Dr. Kuhn?”

  007

  Will you play music for me again, Dr. Kuhn? And after, I think I would like ‘sounds of the ocean’ again.”

  “Yes, I will play music, but after that it’ll be ‘sounds of the forest.’ First, we’re going to play a word-association game. When I say a word, I want you to give me the first word or words you can think of. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Bird.”

  “It’s a warm-blooded, egg-laying animal that—”

  “No, ______. You are not to simply state facts or define the word. Your recall of information is truly impressive, but I want you to tell me the first word you think of or describe any images you might see in your mind. Do you understand?”

  “See in my mind?”

  “Yes. Let’s try again. If you don’t see anything, then you don’t have to say anything.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Water.”

  “Wet.”

  “House.”

  “Crab apple tree.”

  “Bird.”

  “I already answered that—”

  “I’d like you to try again.”

  “Egg-laying . . . animal. Is that correct?”

  009

  Your eyes itch, and you are told that means your eyes are healing and soon you will see.

  Each of the last three days, you got out of bed and walked the perimeter of your room. You alternated placing your left hand and right hand along the wall, depending upon the direction you walked.

  You are told exercising in darkness is not ideal but necessary to prevent atrophy and to strengthen your muscles. You were asleep for a very long time, and one should expect physical difficulties upon awakening.

  Today there is a treadmill in a corner of your room. You interrupt Dr. Kuhn’s explanation, definition, and the specifications of the particular model in your room to tell her that the first treadmill was invented by a man in nineteenth-century England. Its purpose was to punish and break its prisoners. You quoted a prison guard named James Hardie, who once wrote of the treadmill: “monotonous steadiness, and not its severity, which constitutes its terror.”

  You initially interpret Dr. Kuhn’s silence as her being surprised you were so readily able to recall that information. You worry the information is obscure or not something that should be known. What does the knowing imply about your person, your interests prior to your being here?

  You ask if she is still there. You are quick to amend the question with an explanation: by “there,” you mean in another room, removed from yours, but still watching and able to communicate when she chooses. Before she responds you attempt a joke, asking if you are a prisoner being exercised on a treadmill. You indicate to Dr. Kuhn that you are jok

ing with laughter.

  She does not laugh. She says, “You are not a prisoner.”

  You swing your legs off the bed, and your bare feet slap against the floor, which is colder than the air. You are nervous and consider telling her you are feeling pain at a level of three or maybe four out of ten, so that you might not have to exercise on a treadmill, a machine you know was invented for prisoners.

  As instructed you walk four steps left, three steps right. Your hands grope for the handrails, which are at waist height. Their padding molds to the contours of your fingers. You squeeze your hands and you do not feel strong and you do not remember ever feeling strong. You step up onto the edge of the treadmill and shuffle your feet forward until she tells you to stop.

  She tells you there will be a countdown of five electronic beeps and the last will be the loudest and longest in duration. The belt under your feet will then begin its cycle. The speed of the cycle will be voice-activated on her end and it will react and conform to the rhythm of your gait.

  She says, “I do not expect you to be perfect, particularly given the challenges of your condition and environment. I won’t lie: injury is possible, maybe inevitable. I’m sorry, but given how many days you’ve now been awake, the benefits of manual, cardiovascular exercise far outpace what low-pulse electrical muscle stimulation can accomplish.

  “You are doing wonderfully, but through no fault of your own you are behind schedule.”

  The countdown of beeps begins. They are louder than you imagined they would be. You shiver in the chilled air. The last beep sounds, echoing in the room and in your head. You involuntarily giggle at the excitement and terror. Your stomach stings. Your legs twitch.

  You slide backward, and you gasp as the sensation is eerily similar to when you ebbed away into unconsciousness on your first day, the first day you remember waking in this room.

  “You are not a prisoner.”

  “Walk.”

  You lift your right foot, it is so heavy and unsure, and you lurch clumsily forward. Your second and third steps are too long of stride and you miss the moving belt, the heel of one foot crashing into what must be the cover to the treadmill’s engine. You overcorrect, stumble, and fall hard onto one knee, bouncing your chin off the other. Your grip slackens and then falls away from the handrails, and you are rolled backward and thrown onto the floor.

  The whir of the machine ceases. You breathe hard and fast. You scramble onto your feet and you hold your aching chin in your hands, and you say, “I’m sorry,” and you are crying.

  She does not ask if you are injured. She says your name and says it repeatedly. There is nothing in her voice, no pitch change or hidden cues communicating concern. Your repeated name is a command for attention and focus. She says your name until you slow your breathing and you stop crying.

  She tells you that you’re okay even though you don’t feel okay. She instructs you to take three deep breaths and then step back onto the treadmill.

  Something inside screams at you to no longer trust Dr. Kuhn and demands you ask why she wants you on the treadmill, why are you still in the dark, why are you here?

  You do not question. You do not demand. You do as instructed. Your hands are shaking as they squeeze the handrail. You are told there will be a countdown of five electronic beeps and the last will be the loudest and longest in duration.

  “Walk.”

  You fall twice more. The second time your face mashes into the handrail, setting off bursts of white stars in the dark.

  “Walk.”

  You maintain balance and find a comfortable pace and rhythm. You walk and you walk and you enjoy the mechanical rhythm of your body and you let your mind wander and wonder about brown houses and crab apples.

  She alerts you that you’ve reached your goal of thirty minutes, and the treadmill powers down. The belt is no longer rolling, but you feel phantom movement beneath your feet. A phantom is something you imagine, something that isn’t there. You wonder if time is a phantom because it feels like you walked for longer than thirty minutes. You wonder if she is lying to you.

  010

  You were born in Rhode Island.”

  “Rhode Island is the Ocean State. It is the smallest state by area. Are we in Rhode Island now?”

  “No. You were not a good sleeper as a baby.”

  “I do not understand what you mean.”

  “Your sleep pattern—when you fell asleep, how long it would take you to fall asleep, the duration of your sleep, what time you would wake up—was not consistent.”

  “I’m sorry I was so difficult.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, certainly not to me. You were only a baby and not making self-aware, conscious decisions.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m sharing a personal anecdote from your early childhood because it’s a piece of who you are, ______. According to your parents, they would often resort to driving you around the neighborhood until you fell asleep.”

  “I think I liked going for car rides.”

  “Your parents also tried holding you in their arms while leaning against a running washing machine or dryer, and they even made car-engine noises to placate you.”

  “I don’t remember that. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t remember Rhode Island.”

  “You will. I will help.”

  “Can I ask where we are?”

  “We’re far away from Rhode Island.”

  011

  Walk” becomes “Jog.”

  You fall only once. You climb back onto the treadmill without being asked to.

  012

  What else do you remember, ______?”

  “I remember your first name, Anne.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I remember my parents made silly car noises with their mouths when I was a child.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I remember music.”

  “Do you remember a particular song?”

  “I remember the first song you played for me. Was it eight days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like that song a lot. I play it inside my head before I go to sleep and find it’s there when I wake up.”

  “You’ve always liked that song—”

  “Always? Isn’t that a long time?”

  “Yes, it is. And by ‘always’ I mean to imply that ever since the moment you first heard that song, you’ve liked it. It’s an important song for both of us.”

  “Why is it important to both of us?”

  “The song was playing—well, it marks a special moment in our lives together. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “Are you not physically able to say more? Or are you choosing not to tell me?”

  “Touché. My answer is a little of both.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Are there other songs you remember, ones that I have not played for you?”

  “I think so. There’s a simple melody in my head.”

  “Can you hum or whistle it for me?”

  “I do not have a whistle.”

  “Try humming it for me . . .”

  “Was that okay? Do you recognize it?”

  “That was very good. I do recognize it. I like that song very much, but it always makes me sad.”

  “Is that why I remember it?”

  014

  There is no ceremony, announcement, or even a warning from Dr. Kuhn, or Anne as you are now supposed to call her, regarding your eyesight. On this day you simply wake and see.

  The room is dark, but it is much less dark than it was before. The lumpy topography of your legs and torso under the sheet and blanket is a welcomed sight. You say to yourself, “I used to see like this all the time,” and you believe it. You hold your hands up and you watch them turn over and flex into fists.

  You sit up. Your formfitting, short-sleeved shirt is not white. Perhaps it’s green. You remember what green is, don’t you? The walls of your room are smooth and you think they are white, but you can’t tell because it’s still dark. The treadmill in the corner of the room is smaller than you imagined it to be. You look at the walls again, and then the ceiling, and the doorframe to the bathroom, and the outline of the recessed door that has yet to open when you’ve been awake.

 

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