New York City
Pressure.
Her head felt like an overinflated balloon, the rubber skin creaking with each stroke. And voices. There were voices out there.
So many voices.
Each one blurred like a bad recording. Each time, it joined a smudge of color, like blackness streaked with glowing lights, vivid smatterings of pigments that lingered for a moment, just a moment, then were swallowed by the dark until the next one.
Her own thoughts flitted in and out of existence, like an art film splashing random images. A few made sense, but none belonged to the voices. Just before the last stroke of the compressor filled her head, she saw a pair of brown eyes.
Coco.
The balloon popped.
A bright flash swallowed it all.
Alex was spared the pressure and the voices and haunting thoughts. The world fell into place, all the pieces reshuffled and fit where they belonged. And the universe existed again.
It just existed.
And she did, too.
——————————————
“We’ll be suing,” Samuel was saying. “Negligence, pain and suffering.”
Through a veil of crusted eyelashes, the flowers were blurry. Brightly colored balls bobbed over them. Alex blinked slowly and the balls turned into helium-filled balloons tied to colored ribbon. She smacked her lips; the corners of her mouth stung.
“Got to let you go.” Samuel hovered over her. “Alex? You awake?”
“Water.”
He rushed out of sight and returned with a cup. She tried to lift her head. He helped her reach the bendy straw.
“Little sips.” He took it away. “Give that a moment.”
The water rushed into her parched throat and cooled her insides all the way to her stomach. He stared at her while she looked around the hospital room. His black hair was pushed back, his whiskers casting a shadow over the lower half of his face. And his smile glowed.
She smiled back, couldn’t help it, but winced when her lips cracked.
He helped her with two more sips before setting it down.
“Are you feeling all right?” His voice was soft. She couldn’t remember the last time it was like that. So soft, so caring.
“How long...have I been asleep?”
“Almost three days.”
She lifted her arms and stared at her hands. There were no bandages. Besides feeling a bit shaky—she always felt that way when she was hungry—there didn’t appear to be a reason she was in the hospital. Or sleeping for three days.
“They reset your biomites.” He ran his hand through her hair. “Do you remember anything?”
The first thing was the pressure and streaking colors. But then the memory of traffic slowly rose from obscurity, the impact of a speeding truck and blaring horn that wasn’t there.
And Coco.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She smiled. “Alex Diosa.”
“Your full name?”
“Alessandra Diosa.”
“That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll get the doctors.”
He gave her one more swallow of water and put it out of reach. The muscles moved beneath his T-shirt. She collapsed on the pillow and watched him go. She was already tired, fighting sleep. She wanted to see the doctors, to see Samuel again.
The ceiling tiles had tiny perforations, like a white slice of the universe. The helium balloons drifted back and forth, crashing like soft metal.
A wave of static passed through the room, like a radio dial turned through a space of nothingness. It wasn’t static. It was more like a conglomeration of words.
Voices.
She was suddenly thirsty. It took considerable effort to reach the cup. Her fingers brushed over the surface, finally grasping it. She took large sips, noticing the tracks her hand had left on the table.
And a circle the cup had left in a thick layer of dust.
——————————————
Alex checked her email and answered voicemail, followed by a nap. There were more doctors and a thousand explanations. She felt partly numb, but that would change.
“What about the voices?” she asked.
“Voices?” the doctor asked.
She waved her hand around, as if this explained her experience. It was like a crowd in a distance, a stadium miles away, the roar swelling, the sounds blending, the voices indistinguishable from each other.
“What about that?”
The doctor nodded. They would run some more tests. Eventually, the voices would fade.
The next morning, she waited to be discharged.
A nurse was supposed to come with a wheelchair. Alex’s belongings were already in the truck.
Except a ragged National Geographic.
It took a moment; then she remembered. It was on the elevator floor. Someone was looking at it in the waiting room. She was compelled to pick it up. Samuel must’ve thought she was doing research and brought it up to the room. It had been years since she’d read a print magazine.
The pages flopped in her hands. The cover was a tropical island set in the middle of the ocean, with swaying palm trees and a setting sun. Not a bad place to be.
The nurse finally arrived. Alex kept the magazine on her lap and was about to give it to an orderly when she noticed a piece of paper stuck in the middle. The end was torn.
An “A” was written on the end in green ink.
Chills crawled around her neck and tightened, reminding her of the cold chills in the Institute, not like a cool breeze or frozen rain. More like someone watching her.
Alex opened to the centerfold and the bookmark fluttered onto the floor. The nurse stopped to pick it up and handed it forward. She flipped it over.
Alessandra.
Few knew her birth name. Even fewer knew how to spell it. And there it was, written in block letters and wedged into a worn magazine. It wasn’t Samuel’s handwriting. And he didn’t have a green pen, not that she knew. Not that any of that was impossible.
So why did she feel so cold?