Songs from a Daily Visitor

Songs from a Daily Visitor

By: Matt Carroll

 

            People like telling you what is wrong with you. Like a brand new car driven off the lot you start dying as soon as you are born, or that’s what “they” say, but I never cared for them. There is superficial potential people enjoy conversing about and there’s everything hidden in the back of your mind, the voices that are encouraging the impossible, but are stifled by the front of your mind in midsentence.

            The respirator hissed as it inflated then compressed down. The monitor sounded in constant melody to measure my heart rate. The smell doesn’t bother me like other people who complain that it makes them nauseous. Instead I hate how sterile, plain, and cold it is. The warmth was missing here.

            She rolled the cart into the room at the exact time she always did. I lost track of time and how many times she had rolled that same cart into this very room.

            “Hey Ethan. How ya doing Baby?” She asked me.

            I reached for the pen and paper at the edge of my bed. My hand is slow and I scribbled a note. She reached for it gently picking it up as she always did and read it.

            “You know you can’t leave Baby. You’re sick. You just can’t go.”

            I forgot how annoying and agitating the tube was that went down my throat until that very moment. The reminder of the intruding tube reminded me of the I.V.’s that penetrated the skin on my arms. It started like a small snowball at the top of the mountain rolling downwards and building momentum. I hated the lack of answers I had.

            She changed the top sheets, checked my I.V.’s, and left with a smile on her face like she did every day.

            I stared at the ceiling.

            The same Blue Jay sat on the window ceil and chirped her song. Although I enjoy the melody it reminded me of a time when the song was fresh and new. My life was routine. If it weren’t for my dreams and the changing dates on the calendar I could go through a whole day without anything new occurring.

            The next day. Same nurse. Same bed. Same Blue Jay.

            “Hey Baby, how ya doing?” She asked.

            I reached for my pen and paper. My handwriting is messy.

            “You know you can’t leave Baby.” Her smile had the essence of sadness. They say you can’t. They say you shouldn’t. The front of your mind tells you “no” in your tangled logic you gained through experience and failure. Meanwhile the back of your mind is screaming against the wind.

            They lock my door at night. The nurses and doctors are the only people that have a key to open it.

            The sun peaked over the horizon of the window ceil.

            “Hey Baby. How ya doing today?”

            I scribbled another note.

            “Sorry Baby. You know the routine.” She smiled with the same sadness she had the other day.

            I waited, but she didn’t come. I checked the window frequently until my eyes became fixated on the window ceil. She never came. The sun started to set over my miniature horizon of the window ceil and my room became darker and darker. I heard the key turn and lock my door. The voice in the back of my mind was a faint whisper. The words from the nurse echoed throughout my entire consciousness. They said I couldn’t.

            The heart monitor’s sensors beeped methodically, but the sound started to grow rapid. The respiratory machine rose and fell; rose and fell. They trapped me here. They said I was sick. The voice in the back of my mind reminded me that I never believed them. There wasn’t a voice louder than the one that echoed in the back of my thoughts.

            It was pitch dark.

            I started to remove the tube from my mouth. Alarms sounded down the hall. My lungs sucked in the sterile and cold air of the facility under their own power. I pulled the heart monitor’s tabs from my chest making the monitor scream. I stood on my own two feet. The room was now an entirely new perspective.

            I walked towards the door. They tell you normal is better. Be like everyone else. I stared down at the door knob and through the window down the hall. They say that you can’t. I reached out and my fingers brushed against the cold silver knob. I tried to turn it, but it was locked. I was rejected. I tried again and it didn’t turn. I reached for it again. This time the line of potential was broken. They were wrong to suggest I was normal, that I was sick, and that I was wrong. I ripped the door off the hinges and threw it across the hallway sending it crashing with glass flying.