Sensation 5 - Euphoria

It means laughing at nothing whatsoever.
It means stealing kisses.
It means sharing a dream and blanket.
It means fingertips at the lightest places.
It means a warm hug and soft smile.
It means rain and sunshine all at once.
It means joking about things that are all sorts of inappropriate.
It means endorphines.
It means fire power and endurance.
It means driving out of the way.
It means pushing a bit further outside the comfort zone.
It means an undetermined outcome and a certain history.
It means challenging the what ifs.
It means breaking the lines of society.
It means distracting and attracting.
It means saying good bye to old ghosts.
It means acknowledging the here and now.
It means arms, legs, faces, fingers, toes...
It means expectations and the lack thereof.
It means a simple honesty.
It means truth.
It means breaking the silence.
It means.....all of these things.
It means....
Being....
Living......


Moving on.

Cold Memory #8 - What she never tells anyone.

It happened just long enough ago that she thought she forgot about it. She was never one for nightmares or silly bouts of timidity.
In fact, she had a terribly high pain threshold for her age and station in life.

But this one thing, well....it always resurfaced somehow...usually when life got a little more emotional or a little more complicated.

Sometimes she wondered what happened to him. Wondered if anyone ever got him back.
She often sat at her desk, twisting the ends of her hair and wondering if she'd ever be able to recall everything. Part of her wished she could.

A part of her was relieved she never knew all of it.
Though the worst part was being informed after the fact.

Perhaps this is why numbness always made her nervous, that sensation she sometimes woke up with having slept on her arm for too long or having a leg twisted out of sorts during a dream.
Never again did she want to not be able to use her legs and arms.

Even now, she sometimes pinched herself to make sure she could feel things.
Being human is like that, you know.

And she always has her teeth.
Takes more than a few things to numb your face.
Not even a good hard slap will do it right away.


Now...she imagines someone has bitten him hard enough.
To make it stick.
Takes a lot to earn that kind of desire, she thinks.
He worked on it for years apparently.

She hopes it's really not what it appears now. How does someone like that get the girl, the dream house, the luxury car, and the career?
Surely that's not what hell looks like.

Or is it?

Warm Memory #8 Continued...What She Thought of Him

She found him fascinating and wanted to know him.
She didn't know why.

She didn't have to.

Warm Memory #8 - How They Met

Even when his memory was fuzzy, he always remembered meeting her. She was a lightning bolt of energy the night he was introduced - bouncing from person to person throwing candor and spunk into the atmosphere.

He wondered what compelled her to do that. Sitting near the corner of the room, he watched as this imp of a woman chatted aimlessly and poured through guest after guest with inane conversation topics and witty banter. There was something magnetic about this woman and yet something irritatingly bothersome about her behavior. She went from waving excitedly to swiping drinks from guests. She danced about as if she hadn't a care in the world and yet there was something artificial about this display.

He took a drink. Watched.

She took two drinks. Continued to move about.

He was beginning to wonder why she hadn't landed in his corner yet when he felt the reverie-shaking 'thump' of a body falling down next to him.

"So, who are you?"

Startled, she was now staring right in his face demanding an answer to her question. She introduced herself and then waited, the awkward hanging in the air for only a few seconds. Up close, she didn't look nearly as young, nearly as immature as she had seemed across the room.
In fact, he wondered why she looked so incredibly tired.

He answered.

She nodded, her hand brushing his curled up arm. She asked him questions. He gave her answers. She laughed. He laughed back.

He hadn't laughed in awhile.

Neither had she.

She whispered something to him that no one else could hear.
He understood.

Watched her bound away.
Wondered why she told him.

That's how it happened the first time.

At least, that is what he remembered...

Temporary sensation...

Continuing to look around the room, she wondered about herself. She ached everywhere and the sun was starting to tear at her eyes a little.
She occasionally brought a hand to her face, hoping to recognize herself by touch. The mirror didn't help her pinpoint the person she thought she had been before.

The heart monitor tugged at her skin as she tried to settle into a comfortable position. She wasn't sure what it was doing there.

Had she nearly died?

No one had said. They all kept saying the same thing, these nurses in their loud, freakishly pleasant scrubs, "Wait for Dr. Macafee. He'll explain this. He'll help you."

The room was eerily silent and yet peaceful. It was then that she realized the sensation in her brain...

She was alone.


And now this time...she didn't even know who she was.

Time passes - Noodle is no longer in town.

He stood on the back balcony and looked out over the water. The sun was slowly rising and he knew he had to be at work in a matter of minutes; however, every once in awhile he found himself pausing out back, coffee cup in hand, wondering about his most recent decisions.

He leaned back on his heels and took a long drink from his cup. "I mean, how can it be my fault?" he found himself asking aloud, his voice dropping over the deck towards the ground.

"But it is my fault. God, why can't I take myself more seriously?"

His eyes surveyed the new landscape behind his house - the fresh grass, the newly planted shrubs - it was nothing like his apartment back there. It was a lot quieter here too. Hell, his life was always getting quiet like this.

He'd only gone to see her once in the hospital. She looked so vulnerable, so messed up, he couldn't bear the thought of how much pain she'd actually feel when and if she ever woke up. In fact, he didn't know what he'd do when or if she did.

She would have eventually needed him - needed him to help her with therapy; run errands; move her to a more comfortable spot; help her tie up the loose ends. She would have needed to cry on him and scream in agony when she tried to walk. The thought had sent him reeling when he peered down at her pale body, lying attached to the bed. The bandages alone freaked him out.

"She would have needed too much from me," he barely whispered. Realizing just how selfish it sounded out loud, a tear escaped him. He never gave her a chance to wake, never gave himself a chance to see if he could handle it - handle her - in all of her visible need.

Even today, months later, the idea overwhelmed him.
He hated himself for leaving and each time he paused on the patio, he considered whether or not it wasn't the best choice he ever made.

"Someone else is better for her," he said, "She deserves someone who can deal with all that. Someone strong, someone with nerve, someone older and wiser than I am."

He was always defeating himself like this and it hurt more than all that other stuff he thought about and wondered about. For all he knew, she had died days later though he checked the newspaper every morning and never saw an obituary or newstory. He'd moved away shortly after that day in the hospital, to start over, work on his music, and some of those other things he always said he'd try.

But he always wondered about her. Wondered if she ever woke up.
Wondered and hoped a little that she would remember him.

Because he remembered her.
All the time.

Mumbling to himself, he headed back inside to ditch his coffee and head to work. At least here alone, he didn't have to worry about failing her too.

Dr. Macafee

He had been sitting in the lounge when the night nurse from the neurology floor came off her shift on Monday morning. "She's awake now," she commented as she pulled her purse from a locker. "Guess you'll finally get to meet your patient." The nurse turned and left the lounge, a heavy breeze followed her.

Dr. Macafee had been treating her for six months. Maybe it had been seven - he could not quite remember. When she came in she'd been a crumpled woman pile of blood and shattered bone. The bullets had torn through her doing damage he hadn't seen since he'd been overseas. He shuddered at the memory.

Since, he'd spent each day checking her chart, her vitals, and inspecting his handiwork. It'd taken 32 hours of surgery, but he'd removed every bullet save one, the one lodged behind her ear. It was too dangerous to remove it. He couldn't bear the thought of taking her hearing and likely her eyesight in one eye with him.

She arrived on the day he had decided to quit his job, move to the south, and start over. Rita had left him long ago and the work just didn't motivate him anymore. He had no longer cared about saving anyone. But this woman, this mess aboard a stretcher, had taken hold of him someplace deep - a place he hadn't recognized since his interning days at U of M.

He looked down at his newspaper and the unfinished sandwich. How was he supposed to tell her? What was he supposed to say when he met her? In the past months, he'd formed a subtle bond with the comatose woman, caring for her bandages and making sure she was not disturbed. How do you tell someone they have to learn to walk again? How do you tell someone they'll never have children because some freak who skipped his meds opened fire in a crowded lunch room - a gun the police later learned had been slipped in by the patient's mother.

Marc Macafee rose and looked around the quiet lounge, the dank space he'd spent the last several months eating lunch in - a place he swore he'd leave behind a long time ago.

He had no idea what he was going to say. In fact, he'd spent several evenings sitting by her bedside, reading next to her and wondering what her life was like. She was so young and yet looked wise and tired beyond her years.

It was time. He had to do something.
Clearing his throat, he left the lounge and headed for the third floor.