Page 47 of Five Goodbyes

Chapter Seventeen

I start coming back from the dark depths of nothingness, my senses gradually returning to the world of the living. The first thing I notice is the sensation of gasping for air, as if I’ve been submerged in a suffocating abyss. Panic grips my chest, constricting my breath, and my lungs ache with a desperate need for oxygen.

I feel something pull from my throat, inch by inch, like a lifeline being severed, a tenuous connection to life slipping away. I fight against the phantom grip of drowning, my instincts screaming for survival. What have I just endured?

Slowly, my senses begin to collect data, and though the breathing difficulties remain, it’s the high-pitched tone that creates more internal chaos, and through a hazy fog my eyes regain their ability to take in an image. A bed materializes before me. I blink multiple times as I try to figure out where I am. I turn, blink some more, then realize what I’m seeing.

It’s a hospital bed, sterile and crisp, and though I can’t clearly see her, I know without any doubt that it’s Jasmine lying there. I blink some more until she comes into focus. She appears serene, her face tranquil, yet distant, like a delicate mirage on the horizon.

But there’s a chasm between us, widening with each passing second, mocking me with its cruel illusion. Urgency surges through my veins, overriding the hands attempting to pacify me. That tone. It doesn’t stop. Somewhere deep in the cortex of my brain a synapsis is made, and I realize it’s the flatline tone . . . Jasmine is dead.

With a surge of adrenaline, I propel myself out of my bed, only to be betrayed by my unresponsive legs. They refuse to comply with my desperate commands, leaving me helplessly suspended in midair for a fleeting moment before gravity’s ruthless pull claims me.

The impact with the floor is jarring, shattering through my body like a violent tremor. Every nerve feels ablaze with searing pain, and I curl into myself, seeking solace in the face of agony. In this vulnerable moment, my fingers brush against something foreign. It’s the cool surface of an IV, a thin tube trailing just below my bicep. In an act of defiance, fueled by desperation, I rip it free, feeling a sharp sting as the needle dislodges from my vein.

But there’s more; I notice a plastic contraption snugly fitted over my finger, the wire from it around my hand, restricting its movement. Indignation fuels me, and with a fierce yank, I free my finger from its synthetic cage, a sharp snap resonating in the room as the plastic surrenders to my defiance. The sensation of liberation courses through me, like breaking free from the chains that bind.

Blood rushes through me, infused with newfound freedom. I refuse to be shackled by these intrusions to my freedom of movement, reminders of my vulnerability. Ignoring the pain that courses through my body, I push through, crawling forward with a singular focus. Jasmine’s name escapes my lips in a guttural cry, a primal plea reverberating through the room. My fingertips dig for any form of surface to grip onto as I drag myself onward, each slide forward a testament to my journey to the dying woman I love.

With unwavering willpower, I navigate the labyrinth of discomfort and uncertainty. The taste of metallic blood lingers in my mouth, a bitter reminder of the sacrifice I endure in my pursuit. The room around me remains a mosaic of blurred shapes and anxious faces, their features elusive yet compelling. The surfaces reflect the jumbled mess within me, a mirror to the puzzle I’m desperate to unravel.

In this fragile space between recognition and oblivion, I’m enveloped by memories and unanswered questions. I’m a wounded warrior, tearing free from the restraints that seek to confine me. Through the haze of pain and confusion, I press onward, driven by a spirit that refuses to yield.

I’m unmatched in my will, a relentless seeker of reaching my goal, propelled forward by the blend of love and fear. And as I crawl, inch by agonizing inch, the answers lie just beyond my grasp, taking me into the depths of my own fractured consciousness.

Slowly, harsh and worried words break the barrier of this world I’ve found myself in. I turn my head, my eyes adjusting to the scene before me. I’m in a hospital room, sterile and cold, its white walls reflecting a starkness that matches the disarray within me.

Two nurses, their uniforms crisp and pristine, stand nearby, their faces a mix of concern and urgency. They exchange glances, their eyes revealing worry and uncertainty of what to do with a clearly angry patient. One nurse, Emma, wears a kind smile that tries to offer reassurance as she kneels beside me, while the other nurse, Mark, furrows his brow, his eyes scanning my movements as he assesses the situation.

At the back of the room, a figure commands attention. A larger-than-life presence stands tall with an air of authority. His tailored suit exudes opulence, a symbol of his wealth amassed through countless ventures. The lines etched on his face speak of wisdom and experience, and his piercing gaze holds a depth that hints at the burdens he wields. He carries himself with dignity, a man accustomed to navigating the world with power and grace. In this moment, his eyes are fixed on me, a mixture of concern and curiosity flickering within them. Then recognition hits me square in the face . . . Joseph Anderson.

Beside him, his son and daughter-in-law, Lucas and Amy Anderson, middle-aged and well-groomed, radiate an aura of properness. Their attire reflect their refined taste, their clothes impeccably pressed and coordinated. Concern lines their faces, etching worry into their features as they exchange glances filled with unspoken questions. Lucas, with his salt-and-pepper hair, possesses a stoic expression, his eyes reflecting a determination to remain strong for his family. Amy, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, embodies a delicate vulnerability, her hands clasped together for support.

And then there’s Isaiah, Jasmine’s younger brother. His frame is slender, almost wiry, hinting at a quiet strength lying beneath his surprisingly sophisticated appearance. His eyes, are sharp and intelligent, taking in the room with a keen observance. He’s different than I remember, a certain grace in his movements, an elegance that belies his youth. His expression carries a mix of curiosity and concern, as if he possesses wisdom beyond his years. His fingers tap rhythmically against his thigh, a nervous energy manifesting in his restless actions.

The collective presence of Joseph, Lucas, Amy, and Isaiah underscores the gravity of the situation. Their presence here, in this sterile room, tells a tale of love, and worry. I strain to retrieve more fragments of memory, desperate to piece together the puzzle that brought us all together right here and now. Their faces, their expressions, and the emotions etched upon them become the focal point of my search, guiding me closer to unraveling the enigma that envelops my mind.

As the nurses rush to me, concern on their faces, I can sense their urgency. Emma, her eyes filled with compassion, carefully reaches out to me, her voice laced with gentle reassurance.

“Mr. Sparks, please, you can’t do this to yourself. Let us help you back into bed. It’s not safe for you to be crawling around on the floor.”

I shake my head, determination coursing through my veins. “No. I need to get to Jasmine. She’s dying. Help her. Why aren’t you doing anything? I have to help her. Why aren’t any of you helping?”

“Mr. Sparks, please listen. Stop,” Emma says in a slow, kind voice.

“If you won’t help her, then let me.”

“No, Mr. Sparks, she’s not dying. We moved the monitor to the other side of her bed as we worked to wake you up. Her vitals are stable. Please, trust us. Right now, you’re in far more danger than her.”

The comprehension from words connect. I can see an ease on Emma’s face.

“What? How? I . . . Oh . . .” I say, my eyes searching the bed Jasmine’s lying in. My limited field of vision doesn’t assist in answering my questions.

“She’s in a coma, but that tone you hear isn’t for her. Please, let us get you back into your bed.” As the hands reach under my arms and torso I realize I’m going to be torn away from Jasmine, the distance becoming another vast sea separating us.

“Stop. Please. I need to be by her side. Please.” My voice trembles in fear.

The nurses turn their attention to the Anderson family, seeking their consent for my request. Amy Anderson, her eyes filled with compassion, steps forward as the voice of reason. Her voice carries a touch of empathy as she addresses her husband and father-in-law.

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