Dream A Little Dream of Me

Noise. That’s what comes first, weaving spearing, like mist crawling over the horizon. It’s dark, or dark in the matter of the blind. The noise is beeping. Beep beep beep. Above, t the side. Then voices? Are they called voices? Are they voices? I don’t know. I can’t know, because the consciousness is moving lie the tie. I know its movement is like the tide, but I can’t say what a tide is. My body won’t respond. Baby, baby wake up. The word love, many times, different people, if the voices really are voices. They say coma a lot. Am I in a coma? Can’t remember. Baby, please wake up. Amy. Who is Amy? Amy’s voice, a lot, more than the others. A good feeling comes with Amy. The thought of her. Yes, the feeling is love. My wife Amy. I remember now, who Amy is. I sleep too, but how do you sleep when your in a coma, how do you dream within a dream. It could be a dream, all of it. If you’re in a coma, you shouldn’t know you’re in one, right? But Amy, Amy is a clear image in the fog, her and the smell of…of…no, it vanishes, too fast, sand slipping through my fingers. Sand is not water, but sand makes me think of water. Ocean. My parents, voices together, always together, talking about me. Telling me to fight, be strong. Why fight I'm not in the war, not anymore I think. It is too quiet to be the war. No bombs. Wait. Bombs. Yes, a bomb. In….a car. Yes it was a car. Not my car. Last thing I remember. Why was there a bomb? Did it put me here? Maybe. Mark. He was with me. Is he dead. Sleep again, or the thing like sleep. Always sleep better when Amy’s with me. Amy crying, the same rhythm she always cried too. Hot tears on cold skin. My skin? The wakefulness lasts longer. My parents are in the room. Amy is telling a story. Things get clearer. Fog moves away. Yes, it was car bomb. Iraq was loud, and noisy and hellish. I’m probably in the states now, or not Iraq. No shots or yelling or soldiers’ voices. Wait, if Amy and my parents are here, it must be the Sates, they stayed there. I went. Why did I go? Oh yes, the war. President Bush. Saddam. Remembering is easier. Getting easier every…what is it? Minute? Hour? Day? The fog lifts some more. Trying to open my eyelids. Hard, but some light. Light? Is this good? Maybe. Light meaning my eyes are opening. Probably, maybe. Still trapped though, can’t move. Try, try very hard, but I can’t move. Strange. I’ve always had my body in control. Why can’t I move no? Oh, coma, no movement. But I’m awake, inside my skull, trapped. Is that normal? If I’m awake, why do the people outside keeping saying coma. Doctors come and go, the same clacky walk, the same tone in their voice. Detachment. Nurse singing, voice soft, close then far away. Something about testing pain reflexes. Then hot sharp spikes. Promising, the doctor says, responses good. If I were awake, I’d kill him. Amy tells me to wake up. Hold on baby, I’m coming.

This piece was written with the idea of showing the point of view of someone in a coma; it’s supposed to have a dreamlike, surreal feeling to it.