the ghost of me
Your story must take place UP IN THE AIR.
Your story’s first sentence must include a colour and a number.
Your story must include the words DOUBT, PACK and SILENCE.
The nurse below marks the date in her blue ballpoint pen, two straight lines forming a stoic eleven in the relevant column.
That means it’s been seven whole days since I died.
Officially, my condition is ‘comatose’. It’s written right there at the top of the chart. The nurse has added things like heart rate and skin temperature underneath, but it’s hard to tell the specifics in her scratchy handwriting.
But from here, I can see my body lying still in the hospital bed. Eyes closed tight, no sign of life. The tube system is itching through my nose. My mother ruffled my hair yesterday before pushing it off my face. I could feel each teardrop on my skin as she pressed a kiss to my forehead.
A week ago, nurses and staff packed into this room, stumbling over each other to get me breathing again. The metal paddles were cold as ice, frigid on my chest. It was the strangest sensation to witness my body surging through each shock, every zap of voltage hurtling down my veins as my consciousness hovered near the ceiling.
Today, visiting hours are quiet. My wife has left the children at home. She’s slumped in the chair alongside my cot, fingers trembling in her lap. She still looks so beautiful, even though I can see how tired she is. How deep the purple stains are under her eyes, how grief has formed permanent tracks of tears down each of her pale cheeks.
I hate this kind of silence. I don’t want her to mourn me like this. I’ve tried screaming, but she cannot hear my cries; no one can feel my touch. It’s only the slow and steady beep of my heart on the monitor that fills this sterile place. Occasionally, a quiet sob breaks the quiet, muffled by the press of my wife’s hand.
There’s no doubt that she’ll return tomorrow. Another fresh bouquet of flowers will replace the wilting petals on the side table. A new card from an extended family member or grieving colleague will be added to the collection: ‘Get Well Soon’.
She’ll sit by my lifeless body and hold my hand, rubbing her thumb slowly over my knuckles. I can still feel it lingering, the ghost of a touch on skin my mind no longer inhabits. I wish I could squeeze her fingers back, a promise that everything will be okay.
But there’s no way to tell her I’m never coming home.
Furious Thoughts: While there were a lot of comedic offerings this month, this story stood out for its poignant, hovering, quiet observations. Choosing someone in limbo – almost a ghost – as the way to stay off solid ground was a very clever idea, and it also allows the story to unfold in a unique way as the narrator is both unconscious and fully aware of what is happening (mirroring what some say a coma is like). The language is powerful (“every zap of voltage hurtling down my veins”) and the tone subverts where these stories often go – by offering no hope of waking. There is something powerful about this POV (‘dead yet not dead’), no doubt very raw for anyone who has ever sat at a loved ones bedside hoping for recovery. Powerful, beautifully-paced storytelling.
