This is a member contribution for America: 28 Weeks Later, a creative writing series inspired by Rachel Haywire’s stream-of-consciousness Substack article, Finding America.
Find out more and submit your piece here.
I see colours, they dance between two edges, I just want to see those eyes, I want to see those eyes.
These sheets are not mine, am I really here?
I become suddenly overwhelmed in feelings by every second that passes, one of bliss, one of curious and then an entirely new thought, my body? I must not move, I do not want to know my body, I am ok, I know a beautiful voice, that voice I have feeling towards, it is kind and so so beautiful, like music, the music of these humming machines and all their lights, glowing as flowers on a new spring day.
It seems something is tugging at me, still attempting to gain my looking at the jangling words, almost a desperation, there it is again, a cold rush of dread, I must not move, I might discover the truth about my limbs, the pain, no, don’t let it in, the beautiful voice will help me, I am sure, why won’t she help me with her voice, the voice I recognize.
I am alone in this noise, the sweet smell of plastic and rubber and the hard sheets, the purring machines, their clicks and hums comfort me in music, the small chime is as a monasteries chime, I am alive, I think I will stay, will you let me stay, will I ever hold your beautiful voice, will you hold me as I find myself in this world that is so beautiful, I feel I am not, something is haunting me, I can not place this dread of knowing my own mind. What moment am I living, nothing matters, only the voice and the smile, seduce me with your voice, I have no other thing to cling to.