This is a short story I wrote at a writing camp I went to. I hope you like it!
Falling Grace
It’s easy to fall asleep here. The sadness kind of clogs the place up a little, makes me stuffy. Lots of times its easier to sleep rather than feel the trembling of my occupants, the fear that leaks out of their pores. They always shift, uncomfortably, nervously. The air conditioning, too much of it, pushes itself out of the vents, slipping down the pale walls to chill the sitter. There’s something about this cold. It seeps deeper than they realize. It goes through the skin, under the bones and down into the very depth of who they are. Its the ache of fear, the feeling of not knowing. Whatever is next is a mystery of some sorts. The lab tests, the blood work, the endless medications give a hint of the future or lack thereof. Only I have no earthly idea, no vague inclination of what is to come. No one ever bothers to tell me. They just stay seated, their hands nervously clutching my sides, slippery with sweat, words trembling on their tongues but never spilling out of their mouths. Sometimes they come alone, sometimes they bring the sympathetic hand holders, the teary eyes and the endless whispers. My back is tired, worn down from all the shifting of weight and numerous people who have sat here, heavy with grief and uncertainty.
I thought it was bad before. Everything was blood and lights, people screaming, children crying in confusion. The emergency room is not a place to sleep. The people sitting in me there were pulsing with adrenaline, the fear tangible, hanging in the air. Then I was moved down the hall, up the stairs. Finally some peace and quiet I thought. But the quiet is suffocating, worse than the wide awake terror of the emergency room lights, worse than the blood and the broken bones. The very innocence of children is corrupted here with all the needles, the tubes, the endless feeling of complete and utter sadness. Sleep seems like the best, if only, option here.
I apologize if I seem a little...morbid. Like I said, sometimes the bleakness of it all makes me stuffy. The people all around me, the ones that sink onto my hard plastic are the things that chill me rather than the air conditioning and cold sweat that chills my inhabitant. I choose to stay silent, half asleep, rather than deal with the silence. I bless the night, the times when the lights finally dim, the pain leaving with them. This is the easiest time to slip into my slumber, when everyone is gone. Weeks can go by before someone will wake me with a misplaced shout of ecstasy or the choked sound of loss. The worst times to wake are to the ones who choke. They sink down onto me, hands to their faces, their hearts trying their best to break their ribs, salt flowing down their faces. Its hard to sleep after that. Broken hearts are supposed to be fixed, glued back together, but I’m incapable of fixing anything. All I can do is offer something steady for their heart to break on.
One such time I was awoken by a choker. She wasn't choking in the way the others would though. Her breath was coming in short gasps to be sure, her blood pulsing, but she was...laughing. Suddenly the edges of the room were fuzzy, folded and yellowed like an old photograph. Never had I heard such a sound. All around us were hushed tones and dysphoria and yet this girl was laughing. Someone was tickling her and the girl was rolling against me, full of breathless joy.
“Give it back!” the boys voice rang with the same joy as the girls.
“Never!” was her startling reply as she lept up and made her way around the room at a run, the boy close behind. I tried to slip back into my slumber but it was impossible with all the running and laughter. Eventually the girl made her way back to me, bouncing on my edge.
“I give up,” she cried “Truce!”
The boy was now laughing as hard as she, the noise of both shaking the careful walls of dormancy I had set up around myself. When she was finally called back by the doctor I tried to slip into my slumber again but something prevented me from it. The room seemed less clogged somehow, lighter.
I dozed off sometime later, the girl lost to the maze of examination rooms with her friend. It may sound strange, because sleep is my escape, but during my sleep I could not stop thinking of all the things that had worn down my faded plastic. All the days I’d spent in the emergency room, soaked with despair and suffocating on the suddenness of it all. So many people had passed through the doors, so many frames had sunk onto me, the weakness of the moment sweeping over them. Only the girl, the laughing girl, had choked on something other than sadness, other than loss. Only she had seemed...happy to be in this horrible place.
I don’t know how long I slept but the next time I woke the girl was there again. She was laughing just as hard as the last time, her deep breaths shaking me and making other occupants stare from across the room. Eventually the shaking stopped and one last deep breath was let out. The boy was with her again, both of them sitting, her on his lap, their hands intertwined.
“Grace?” I could hear the change in his voice; happy time was over.
“Yeah?” She shifted around to look at him.
His voice dropped to a whisper, “Are you scared?”
Even with the boy as a barrier between us I could feel her heartbeat speed up, liquid fire shooting through her veins. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her fingers fluttering over his. She sighed once more before answering.
“I've never felt anything like this before Keith,” her voice had dropped low “I don’t know if it’s the fear of the cancer or if it’s the fear of not...” her voice was lost as the air conditioning kicked on.
I could feel Keith’s question, his fear was one of not knowing, not understanding this girl who sat with him, whose answer he was waiting for.
“I guess...” she sighed a final time before finishing her answer “I guess I’m more scared of not living you know?
After that I tried not to listen.
A cleaning crew came through one day, giving me a welcome distraction. Everything was moved into the hallway; there was no clogged stuffy feeling there. It was empty of grief and easy to fall asleep in. When we were moved back in though, the feelings only got worse. I hadn't seen the laughing girl, Grace, in a long time. I’d never formed an attachment to one of my occupants. I wondered what had happened to her, where her friend was, if he was staying with her. I tried to keep it together, focus on the nice clean feeling beneath me, the smell of lemon furniture polish, anything but the feeling of uncertainty.
I didn't have to focus for long though. Within a few days Grace was back, Keith still holding her hand. Her heart wasn't beating as hard today, her blood flowing leisurely through her tired veins. There was no laughter. Keith sat rigid, his back straight and stiff. His arms held Grace tightly, too tightly and in the moment that he sighed, a deep soul shattering sigh, I knew. Grace wasn't getting better. The knowledge was bruising. They sat for a half hour. Grace’s chest rose slowly and for a while I thought she was asleep. Then she shifted around in Keith’s arms. When she spoke her voice was scratchy and uneven.
“Thanks for coming with me. I know that...” she cleared her throat and Keith took it as an opportunity to interrupt.
“You know I’ll always come.”
They didn't say anything after that.
When Grace went back for treatment, Keith stayed seated, which was unlike him. He shuffled his feet, he checked his watch, his hands wouldn't stay still. After a few minutes a woman sat down next to him, holding a file folder.
“Are you Keith?”
He stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Emily,” she paused “from Make A Wish.”
She handed Keith a folder. “The plane tickets will be waiting for you at the gate. When you land a car will take you to the hotel. The whole itinerary is in here.” She tapped the folder.
Keith let out a small breath.
“Thank you.” he said “She’s always wanted to go to Europe.”
“Does she know?” Emily asked.
“No,” Keith smiled a tiny smile. “It’s a surprise.”
“Well,” Emily patted his hand, her sadness leaking over into his. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”
The sleepiness crept over me after weeks of nothing. Grace had left without a smile, her hand sitting limply in Keith’s. Keith, on the other hand, had left with a secret smile.
When they finally came back Grace’s limpness was more pronounced. She sagged against Keith, her heart puttering in her chest. She tried to talk about London, the Eiffel tower, the Swiss Alps, how much fun she had had. Keith just held her, nodding occasionally. I could feel his heart moving, his blood pumping, his lungs expanding and contracting but I knew he wasn’t really there. Thats one of the worst things about cancer. It doesn't just kill the one who has contracted the disease, it kills the ones they love too. Finally they moved back into the treatment room, Keith holding Grace by the arms to keep her up. It was hard to fall asleep after that.
The next time Grace came back, she was alone. There was a new spring in her step. She fidgeted as she sat, her fingers tapping against me, her lips playing with a smile. She went back quickly when her name was called, her arms swinging at her sides, no one holding her up. She was gone a long time. I wondered where Keith was. Why he wasn't holding her hand, kissing her cheek when things got ugly? Had he given up? Was she a lost cause? How many times had he sat here and told her it would be all right? That he was there for her?
An anger simmered below my painted surface, an anger of the injustice, the cowardice of it all. When Grace finally left the treatment room her smile still held firm, if a little dejectedly. Her arms still swung, her head was still high. She turned once about the room as if looking for the last time.
Goodbye Grace.
She placed a hand on me.
I hope you’re happy.
She sank down.
I’ll miss you.
Her hands ran down my arms, as if memorizing their shape and feel.
Never stop smiling.
She stood.
No
The door was only steps away.
Don’t go.
A tiny whisper.
“Goodbye.”
I thought it was bad before. Everything was blood and lights, people screaming, children crying in confusion. The emergency room is not a place to sleep. The people sitting in me there were pulsing with adrenaline, the fear tangible, hanging in the air. Then I was moved down the hall, up the stairs. Finally some peace and quiet I thought. But the quiet is suffocating, worse than the wide awake terror of the emergency room lights, worse than the blood and the broken bones. The very innocence of children is corrupted here with all the needles, the tubes, the endless feeling of complete and utter sadness. Sleep seems like the best, if only, option here.
I apologize if I seem a little...morbid. Like I said, sometimes the bleakness of it all makes me stuffy. The people all around me, the ones that sink onto my hard plastic are the things that chill me rather than the air conditioning and cold sweat that chills my inhabitant. I choose to stay silent, half asleep, rather than deal with the silence. I bless the night, the times when the lights finally dim, the pain leaving with them. This is the easiest time to slip into my slumber, when everyone is gone. Weeks can go by before someone will wake me with a misplaced shout of ecstasy or the choked sound of loss. The worst times to wake are to the ones who choke. They sink down onto me, hands to their faces, their hearts trying their best to break their ribs, salt flowing down their faces. Its hard to sleep after that. Broken hearts are supposed to be fixed, glued back together, but I’m incapable of fixing anything. All I can do is offer something steady for their heart to break on.
One such time I was awoken by a choker. She wasn't choking in the way the others would though. Her breath was coming in short gasps to be sure, her blood pulsing, but she was...laughing. Suddenly the edges of the room were fuzzy, folded and yellowed like an old photograph. Never had I heard such a sound. All around us were hushed tones and dysphoria and yet this girl was laughing. Someone was tickling her and the girl was rolling against me, full of breathless joy.
“Give it back!” the boys voice rang with the same joy as the girls.
“Never!” was her startling reply as she lept up and made her way around the room at a run, the boy close behind. I tried to slip back into my slumber but it was impossible with all the running and laughter. Eventually the girl made her way back to me, bouncing on my edge.
“I give up,” she cried “Truce!”
The boy was now laughing as hard as she, the noise of both shaking the careful walls of dormancy I had set up around myself. When she was finally called back by the doctor I tried to slip into my slumber again but something prevented me from it. The room seemed less clogged somehow, lighter.
I dozed off sometime later, the girl lost to the maze of examination rooms with her friend. It may sound strange, because sleep is my escape, but during my sleep I could not stop thinking of all the things that had worn down my faded plastic. All the days I’d spent in the emergency room, soaked with despair and suffocating on the suddenness of it all. So many people had passed through the doors, so many frames had sunk onto me, the weakness of the moment sweeping over them. Only the girl, the laughing girl, had choked on something other than sadness, other than loss. Only she had seemed...happy to be in this horrible place.
I don’t know how long I slept but the next time I woke the girl was there again. She was laughing just as hard as the last time, her deep breaths shaking me and making other occupants stare from across the room. Eventually the shaking stopped and one last deep breath was let out. The boy was with her again, both of them sitting, her on his lap, their hands intertwined.
“Grace?” I could hear the change in his voice; happy time was over.
“Yeah?” She shifted around to look at him.
His voice dropped to a whisper, “Are you scared?”
Even with the boy as a barrier between us I could feel her heartbeat speed up, liquid fire shooting through her veins. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her fingers fluttering over his. She sighed once more before answering.
“I've never felt anything like this before Keith,” her voice had dropped low “I don’t know if it’s the fear of the cancer or if it’s the fear of not...” her voice was lost as the air conditioning kicked on.
I could feel Keith’s question, his fear was one of not knowing, not understanding this girl who sat with him, whose answer he was waiting for.
“I guess...” she sighed a final time before finishing her answer “I guess I’m more scared of not living you know?
After that I tried not to listen.
A cleaning crew came through one day, giving me a welcome distraction. Everything was moved into the hallway; there was no clogged stuffy feeling there. It was empty of grief and easy to fall asleep in. When we were moved back in though, the feelings only got worse. I hadn't seen the laughing girl, Grace, in a long time. I’d never formed an attachment to one of my occupants. I wondered what had happened to her, where her friend was, if he was staying with her. I tried to keep it together, focus on the nice clean feeling beneath me, the smell of lemon furniture polish, anything but the feeling of uncertainty.
I didn't have to focus for long though. Within a few days Grace was back, Keith still holding her hand. Her heart wasn't beating as hard today, her blood flowing leisurely through her tired veins. There was no laughter. Keith sat rigid, his back straight and stiff. His arms held Grace tightly, too tightly and in the moment that he sighed, a deep soul shattering sigh, I knew. Grace wasn't getting better. The knowledge was bruising. They sat for a half hour. Grace’s chest rose slowly and for a while I thought she was asleep. Then she shifted around in Keith’s arms. When she spoke her voice was scratchy and uneven.
“Thanks for coming with me. I know that...” she cleared her throat and Keith took it as an opportunity to interrupt.
“You know I’ll always come.”
They didn't say anything after that.
When Grace went back for treatment, Keith stayed seated, which was unlike him. He shuffled his feet, he checked his watch, his hands wouldn't stay still. After a few minutes a woman sat down next to him, holding a file folder.
“Are you Keith?”
He stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Emily,” she paused “from Make A Wish.”
She handed Keith a folder. “The plane tickets will be waiting for you at the gate. When you land a car will take you to the hotel. The whole itinerary is in here.” She tapped the folder.
Keith let out a small breath.
“Thank you.” he said “She’s always wanted to go to Europe.”
“Does she know?” Emily asked.
“No,” Keith smiled a tiny smile. “It’s a surprise.”
“Well,” Emily patted his hand, her sadness leaking over into his. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”
The sleepiness crept over me after weeks of nothing. Grace had left without a smile, her hand sitting limply in Keith’s. Keith, on the other hand, had left with a secret smile.
When they finally came back Grace’s limpness was more pronounced. She sagged against Keith, her heart puttering in her chest. She tried to talk about London, the Eiffel tower, the Swiss Alps, how much fun she had had. Keith just held her, nodding occasionally. I could feel his heart moving, his blood pumping, his lungs expanding and contracting but I knew he wasn’t really there. Thats one of the worst things about cancer. It doesn't just kill the one who has contracted the disease, it kills the ones they love too. Finally they moved back into the treatment room, Keith holding Grace by the arms to keep her up. It was hard to fall asleep after that.
The next time Grace came back, she was alone. There was a new spring in her step. She fidgeted as she sat, her fingers tapping against me, her lips playing with a smile. She went back quickly when her name was called, her arms swinging at her sides, no one holding her up. She was gone a long time. I wondered where Keith was. Why he wasn't holding her hand, kissing her cheek when things got ugly? Had he given up? Was she a lost cause? How many times had he sat here and told her it would be all right? That he was there for her?
An anger simmered below my painted surface, an anger of the injustice, the cowardice of it all. When Grace finally left the treatment room her smile still held firm, if a little dejectedly. Her arms still swung, her head was still high. She turned once about the room as if looking for the last time.
Goodbye Grace.
She placed a hand on me.
I hope you’re happy.
She sank down.
I’ll miss you.
Her hands ran down my arms, as if memorizing their shape and feel.
Never stop smiling.
She stood.
No
The door was only steps away.
Don’t go.
A tiny whisper.
“Goodbye.”