I wake up sweating. My stomach feels like it's trying to push down through my body. I pick up my phone and look at the time. I slept for six hours and now I must work. Deadlines approach and I cannot afford to waste precious time in bed.
Rolling to the side I slowly sit up and hang my legs over the mattress. Instead of following my inclination to sleep I reach for a half full an of a too bitter, too sweet energy drink. The thickened syrup rolls against my tongue as I push to my feet. I pass the desk. My hand strikes the mouse to my computer jarring the screen awake with a glow too bright before it dims. Leaning in against the back of my chair I read over my words from the day before and drink what is left in the can. Too much passive voice, too much unnecessary information, too much analysis proving the same point over and over. This is all I can see in my writing. I do not see the energy and creativity I remember. Now it is all form, structure, rules, and guidelines.
Anxiety refuses to allow me to dismiss the weakness in my own work. For the moment I repress my faults so I can slide down into the chair. Every synapse that runs through my thoughts tells me that I must write. I am not awake but I must work. Picking up a nearly empty pack of cigarettes I shake it and try to guess how many are left. The box is light and folds under my touch. The rattle sounds like three. Opening the lid I draw out one of the four in an attempt to prove my guess accurate.
Lighting the cigarette I stand and allow the smoke to roll in thick gauzy waves out of my mouth. I walk to the bathroom. I have never inhaled the initial puff of a cigarette. The thin paper cup is still on the counter and is now dry. No evidence of my using it remains as I stand at the sink and look at myself. My eyes are still red and glassy. The skin beneath them is still swollen. Smoking that cigarette I go through the motions of waking. I relieve myself in the toilet, lather my teeth, rinse my mouth and run the remaining cool water from that small cup over my face and beard.
As I walk into my room I feel exhausted. I want to lie down, I want to close my eyes and make the world dark and meaningly. I sit in my chair and stare at the last period on the page. Sliding my hands over the keyboard I begin to write.
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I am sitting in an intensive care ward. Family surrounds me talking, laughing, trying to diminish the location. The room refuses to recede. It is white and lacks color. The tiles of the floor make the light scream and the walls reflect that echo into me. I stare at my hands as I occupy my fingers in the act of tying the loose strings of the gauzy yellow medical gown in consecutive knots. Each feel complete before I begin on the next.
"Look at him, he always does this. Tying knots, I can't figure it out." My father comments with humor in his voice. I look at him. He wants distraction, I can see this in his eyes. He is in pain but will not show it in the same room as my brother. Bob's pain is enough for all of us.
"I like to keep my hands occupied," I like as I look down at the string of knots in my hand. Tying them does not keep my mind occupied. The impact spacing reminds me of myself. Each tightly bound knot upsets the smooth line of the loose band of yellow. I do not know why I tie them.
I look up at my family as I drop the knotted band. I know some intimately. My father, my mother, my uncles and brother make the room familiar. Others I pretend to know. Because they are family they pretend to know me. We do not speak to each other but only look. They are here because they know my brother. The sun is setting outside and in. We can see the red of dusk on the horizon. My fear grows with the darkening sky. I wonder if they are afraid like I am.
November is days away and the crisp air announces the ending weeks of my first semester of graduate school. Soon I will make a decision to return home. Outside it is Chicago where these concerns do not exist. Inside of me is Cleveland where the worry of academic performance breeds with the fear my decision creates. I will leave my brother here and I know I will not see him again. This is my last moment in his presence and I recognize that he will become a memory to me. I will not hear him curse again. I will not wipe his saliva from the end of anymore pipes. I will never clean his red again. I will only remember that at one time in my life I had a brother who filled the room.
I look to my right and see my mother's eyes. She is trying to reassure me of my decision. I am uncertain and afraid when she rises and announces it is time for us all to leave. My family stands but I remain sitting and watch as each leans over to awkwardly embrace my brother. They whisper to him words that only they share before proclaiming their intention to return the next day. Each person to say this amplifies the sinking of my stomach. I feel oddly light as I stand in the raw white of the room. For the moment I wish for cans of bright and thick paint. I would throw cobalt turquoise against the ceiling, slam viridian green into the walls, and over-turn alizarin crimson across the floor.
Approaching the hospital bed I feel sick. My eyes run along the tiles that I walk on until I see the hard black plastic wheels of the stainless steel pole at Bob's bedside. There is a quiet whirr from the fans in the computer attached to it that releases virulent antibiotics and pain-killers into his body. The top of the pole is strung in clear plastic bags filled with colorless solutions. I am reminded of stringing decorations upon a Christmas tree and my eyes begin to burn.
I cannot look at Bob at first. My fear will betray the strength I want to pretend to have. I breathe in deep and turn to face him as his eyes open at me. The smile on his lips looks strained and forced. His strength builds in me as I lean over his bed and quietly speak. He is no longer larger than the room and my hands begin to shake as I grip the restraining rails of his bed. I lean in closer to him and whisper, I know if my voice grows too loud it will break and betray me. Words are only powerful when the hide the fear.
"I want to make a deal with you. I'll go home and earn a four point for you in graduate school, if you stay here and fight for me."
"Deal." His voice is as quiet as my own. We are both hiding from fear, his outweighing mine.
My last words to Bob are that I love him. I turn and close my eyes wanting the last image to be of him smiling at me. Slowly I walk towards the door leading into the hall and remove the yellow gown that I have knotted. I walk quietly through the hospital halls with my parents. Soon they will escort me out of the city and I will begin a late drive to Cleveland to be at class the next morning. I cannot stop the tears now.