I WANT TO open my eyes but it's not happening, and I don’t understand what’s wrong. I can hear voices and beeping. Why won't my eyes open?
“There’s been no change, I’m afraid. We are monitoring him very closely, Mrs. Jamison. You should go and get something to eat; you’ve not left the room all day.”
“I know and I will, I just don’t like leaving him on his own.”
Mom? That’s her voice—I’m sure of it; it’s so faint, but it’s definitely hers. I want to turn towards it, but I can't. God, what the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I move? Shit, my head hurts. I’m so tired, but I’m in too much pain to sleep and I can’t lift my eyelids. Maybe I’m dreaming. Can you feel pain in a dream? I’m confused and this headache feels real.
The beeping is getting louder. I need it to stop. Concentrate, Ethan—open your fucking eyes, goddamn it.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep,
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.
“Doctor, someone please come quick! Something’s happening!”
“Mom?” Wait did I say that aloud? I try again, but all I can muster up is a cough. My throat hurts. There’s something in my mouth and it’s making me gag; I need it out.
“Oh, thank you, god! Thank you. Ethan honey, I’m here!”
My eyes start to flutter as I concentrate on trying to open them. I finally manage and then instantly wish I hadn’t. I’m greeted with ridiculously bright fluorescents and my headache takes on a whole new dimension. There’s so much pressure building behind my eyes I almost want someone to drill a hole into my temple to drain it. Mom’s face moves into view, shielding the brightness for a moment before it’s replaced with a woman’s face that I don’t recognize. She’s leaning over me and telling me to keep calm while she removes the ETT. What the fuck’s an ETT?
She starts pulling at something and then I gag as a long tube scrapes its way up my throat and out of my mouth. It steals my breath and leaves me feeling like she’s just sandblasted my esophagus. The machine next to my head is going nuts, shrieking and beeping. The woman disappears from vision moments before the room falls quiet. I sigh in relief and attempt to sit up. My surroundings look completely sterile with a saccharine greenish blue tinge to it. Or maybe it has no color at all and it’s my blurred spotted vision that’s painting the room.
“Whoa, hold your horses, mister. Please lie back down. The doctor is on his way to see you.”
Doctor? What the hell is going on?
“Ethan honey,” Mom says softly as she leans over me and brushes my hair from my forehead.
“What’s going on?” I manage to ask. My throat is on fire, and nothing is making any sense to me.
“You were in an accident, honey. Do you not remember?”
I register her words, but it’s like someone has thrown a thick woolen blanket over my thoughts. I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“Ah, nice to see he’s awake.” A male voice booms through the room and I wince at the volume.
“My name is Doctor Moss, Ethan. How are you feeling?” I look over to see a short fat guy in a white coat that barely covers his plaid shirt and bright red bow tie. His curly red hair is combed to the side and he’s studying a chart before his eyes lift from behind the rim of his round golden spectacles to meet mine. He looks like a poster child for a nutty professor.
“Everything hurts,” I tell him. He smiles and reassures me that he can give me something to make me more comfortable. I don’t know what it is that he’s planning to give me, but I hope to fuck he gives me a truckload of it, and fast.
“Ethan can you tell me your full name, please?”
I look at him confused. I can see from here that the clipboard he’s holding has Ethan Jamison scrawled over it. Why the hell’s he asking?
“Ethan Jamison,” I reply.
“Excellent. Can you tell me what month and year we are in?”
What the hell? If he doesn’t know what year we are in he really has no business working in a hospital; he should be a patient.
“It’s February 2014. What’s with the questions?” I say as I bring my hand up to rub at my throat. I’m attached to wires and tubes and god only knows what else. They bite at my wrist where they disappear under a bandage. I move my attention back up to the doctor and catch the look he and my mom are sharing.
“Ethan, it’s not Feb—” Mom’s silenced by doctor what’s-his-face raising his hand. She rears her head back a little and looks concerned.
“I’m afraid that’s not quite correct; it’s June 2014,” he says eying me carefully.
“Oh…I, wait, I’m confused. June?”