"Comatose"

[Rebecca Clare Smith]

This is something I started writing on SaSA and if I post it here maybe I'll keep up. ;P

[Rebecca Clare Smith]

It's a funny thing, being in a coma. Sometimes you're on the brink of waking up. I'm on the brink now as I hear the nurses wittering to each other whilst they tidy up the bunch of flowers beside my bed. There are no visitors sat with me. For a moment I wonder why that is. The sunlight is dancing across the ward with an almost clinical cleanliness to every ray. There are other visitors in the room sitting by the beds of other patients. The nurses by my bed have not noticed that my lashes are partially open. They are talking about my lack of visitors and the presence of the flowers. The flowers are very 'showy' they observe. I wonder why they have American accents. Am I no longer in London? It is too much of a chore to keep my eyes open in this sterile room. I'm being dragged back into the dream, sucking into my subconscious slumber and made to relive memories.

Here we are at [Memory Number One]. Paul looks at me as if he has never seen me before. He has his dark hair combed just right and is wearing a dark office suit with big black shoes. I like his tie. It's pink and it has little rabbits on it. I wonder who bought him it. He looks at me with kind eyes, realising who I am. It's the first time we have met. I feel the corners of my lips stretch into something that could be construed as a smile. It may be possible for my bitterness and resentment to stay away from my tongue. He shakes my hand, holding my thin palm and long, piano fingers in his thick mitts and giving a hefty yank by way of hello. I stretch my lips again and hope that he mistakes my nausea for anxiety. The woman with the grey hair and the worried grin beckons me to sit down. She thinks I'm going to cause a scene. I try the stretched smile once more, settling myself in the seat opposite her. She starts to pour me a cup of teain that absurd American way where there is no milk and the tea is not only chilled but accompanied by a slice of lemon. I try not to look disdainful, sipping the horrible stuff to please her. She looks a little more relieved. It's a shame because I would much prefer that I offended her in every way humanely possible. Paul is here, though, and I must remember to be polite. He sits down beside the woman and begins to tell me of himself. He is very eager and excited. I note that the old man will instantly like him. The bile curdles in my throat. I take another drink of the ridiculous American tea to try to force the vomit back down. If I was sick now they would understand. I cannot tell them, though. Paul is eager to meet Derek and if I ruin things we will have words... or worse.

My hand shakes and I drop the cup. It breaks into pieces on the small table top, spilling the horrible cold tea everywhere. The grey-haired bitch looks at me as though this was done intentionally. I hear myself apologising but Paul is laughing as though it is some gentle joke. He smiles at me, unabashed, and I begin to relax a little. The smile is genuine and it warms me down to my toes. He is picking up the pieces of the cup, putting them on the saucer and mopping up my mess. I contemplate the mess that I have made. The grey-haired woman relaxes a little more again. I realise that it is because of Paul that we both feel a little easier. I wonder if Derek has noticed this and that is why Paul is here. The stretch of my lips fades slightly into something more relaxed and real. Paul catches my eyes and smiles back. I feel suddenly foolish. He reminds me of a puppy with his good-natured face and huge eyes. The sound of Derek's voice shatters the air of the office. Paul looks mildly distressed by this, but I can see that his insides are not turned to ice as are those of the grey-haired lady and me.

[Memory Number Two]. I am younger now. The mirror shows my big smile and a lopsided ribbon in my scarlet hair. The young me does not know what is about to happen, but I do. I feel sick as I am dragged into this memory. There is a big plastic circle pinned to my chest. It is to tell everybody that I am nine years old today. There are children playing outside in the garden. My father is somewhere inside the house. He has hired me lots of entertainment for our big back garden in London. There are children racing across the grass with balloons. The night draws on. It begins to get cold outside so the parents come to collect the children. I wave them all off as they go. Now there is only me and my father left in our house. My mother died when I was two and the maid has left for the day. My father has bought me a dress for grown up girls. I try it on and twirl for him. It's red and gold. He tells me that it looks pretty with my hair. We play a chasing game around the house. I am still wearing the dress. There is a nail sticking out of the skirting board at the top of the hallway. I hear a tearing noise as I run past. The dress is ripped terribly. I am examining it when my father catches up. He is stood half way up the stairs looking at me. I can see that he is angry. I know that the dress cost him a lot of money. Frightened, I run through the nearest doorway and cower in the room beyond.

The room is dark and silent. I can hear his breathing as he comes in. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, expecting him to smack me, but he does not. It is far worse. We are in his bedroom. It is dark and nobody else is there. He makes me take the dress off, telling me that I'm a rotten little girl and that I am terribly spoiled. He makes me lay down on the bed. I don't want to remember any more but the dream doesn't stop and I cannot wake up. I relive the pain and the strange feelings and know that, despite the coma, I am crying in the physical world. I despise the memory of when I was nine and I was raped by my father. That was just the first time, though. Afterwards I lie there wondering what has just happened to me. My father is asleep. He is no longer angry but I can feel his rage etched and bruised into the most tender parts of my body. It is hurting. I dare not make any sound in case I wake him and I do not move in case he is angry if he finds me gone. I wonder if this is a new form of punishment. Later I find out that it is not supposed to be a punishment. Later I find out that it shouldn't happen but it still does and I am too afraid to stop it. I grow to be quiet and to try to avoid being bad. My teachers at school report that I seem terribly withdrawn. My father punishes me for this. He then moves us to America because his company will be better if it is based there. The teachers in America report that I am withdrawn. My father punishes me but cannot make me more outgoing.

[Memory Number Three]. I feel exposed as I walk down the aisle. There is a pretty bunch of narcissi in my hands. I am following an ivory trail. The grey-haired woman has covered her hair up in the ivory. This is the moment that I hate her most. I have decided that it is her fault that my father hurts me. My father is waiting at the end of the aisle with the vicar. I wonder if this is what it would have been like to have attended his wedding to my mother. He smiles at the grey-haired woman in a way that he has not really smiled at me since I was nine. I feel as if I have been pushed aside. When Gloria and Derek have finished exchanging their vows I wish I had the strength to stand up and say that they should not be married, but I do not. Instead I follow in my subservient way. My father goes away on honeymoon with his new wife. I am left at our big house in New York. There is a knock at the door and a young man is standing there. He tells me he has to see my father and that it is important. I shut the door in his face and put the bolt on, slumping against the wood as he calls through the letterbox. He sounds like my father and I don't like it. I tell him to go away and he does but he says he will be back...

[Memory Number Four]. Today is the day that I meet Cindy. I am sitting in a cafe reading 1984 by George Orwell. I think that the book captures how I feel about my life. It is not the first time that I have read it. I reminisce. The first time I read it was when I was ten an hour after one of my father's punishments. That time it was because I had dropped his favourite mug when emptying the dishwasher. The handle of the mug broke off. I offered to fix it but that just made Derek angrier. I feel like I lost my father the night of my ninth birthday. To me he is just Derek Sandringham. I call him father because if I don't I'm afraid of what he might do. I turn the page of the book and wish that I, like Winston, have somebody to share my 1984 with. A girl sits down at my table. She looks a little older than me, but not by much. I watch her light up a cigarette and take a drag. She smiles at me with her wide mouth. I feel helpless. Why is she here? Her black hair swings around her ears in her bob cut. I think it's dyed but I don't say anything. I don't know her and I don't know why she is sat at my table. "I'm Cindy," she says. "There are no other seats." She reaches forward and tugs a string of my red hair from my ponytail letting it dangle loosely by my face. "I like your hair. You should wear it down more."

I instantly say that my father wouldn't like it. She snorts through her nose and tells me that it's my hair and I should do what I want with it. I give her a weak smile but there are no real sentiments in it. I would rather be controlled than face my room 101. She asks my name and I tell her, watching as she steals half of my untouched sandwich. We talk for quite a while but then she has to go. Her boyfriend is waiting for her. He's finished his errands. I go to the cafe everyday and sometimes Cindy shows up. We slowly become good friends. I think she senses something from the way I mention my father, but she does not say anything. Sometimes I catch her looking at me with sympathy in her eyes. I don't like this. It makes me feel smaller and weaker. I want to say that I am neither of these things, but, of course, I am. One day she writes her number down on a piece of paper before she leaves. She tells me that, if I need somewhere to stay or someone to talk to, I can call her. I put the piece of paper safely in my pocket and watch as she meets her boyfriend at the entrance to the cafe. He gives me a steady look. I think he is suspiscious of me but I don't know why. I wonder if Cindy has told him about me. Maybe she has and so he doesn't like me. I wonder if, should I call Cindy, he would answer the phone. Would he speak to me or would he silently hand the receiver to Cindy?

[Memory Number Five]. Nobody has noticed my disappearance. I am supposed to be standing silently beside my father at his 'little get together'. It is a business thing. The hallway where I stand is dark. I am peering through the crack in the door at a man with dark hair and laughing eyes. It is Paul. He is joking with some men that I have never seen before. I feel sick again. I know what is wrong but I cannot speak to a doctor about it. Paul opens the door before I have a chance to hide myself. I am frightened and I can see the surprise on his face. He closes the door carefully behind him. He leans a little closer to me and I can taste the alcohol on his breath. He kisses me softly on the mouth. Hot tears cloud my eyes and drip down my cheeks. "Please don't," I say. "My father will get mad." He looks at me with his kind eyes full of concern. He touches my cheeks and rubs away the tears with his thumb. He is telling me that it is okay and that it will all be okay. I know that neither is true. I feel like I have to tell him the truth. "I'm pregnant." He starts apologising. He says he didn't realise that I was in a relationship. I start to cry again. Paul holds me close to his chest. My ear is pressed against his heart and I can hear it beating.

"Don't you know who the father is?"

"Yes," I say. I look up at him with my eyes streaming. "It's my father's."

[Awakening]. I open my eyes. The room is dark and I don't know where I am. I feel like there is something missing. There is a big bunch of flowers on the table beside my bed. I think I am in a hospital. I don't remember how I got here. A nurse comes over to speak to me and ask me how I feel. I tell her but then I ask where I am. She has a strange accent. She says I'm New York in a hospital. I don't understand. I live in London. Why am I in New York? Why am I in the hospital?