12 Short Story Challenge - no.6 (because why start with no.1?)
She opened her eyes again to the same bewildering blackness.
“It’s still so pitch black. Where the hell am I?” she whispered.
Her voice sounded foreign, like someone else was talking.
“Why is it so flipping cold? Hello?” she said to nobody.
There was only black. Her voice reverberated back as if the walls were clad in fluffy carpet. The air was thickly disorientated. She couldn’t fathom whether she was sitting or standing or lying down. Her feet were like ice and her hands were numb, moving them was like wading through dark syrup. It was so cold her breath was hurting her throat.
There was warmth when she turned her head. She tried to get closer. Her body was too heavy and un-obliging. She figured out that when she turned her head, her body seemed to morph in that direction. Facing more towards the warmth, she seemed to get closer to it.
There was a glow, working its way through the black from the warmth. It pulsed the scent of early summer jasmine, that outlined feelings of bare feet on green grass with sticky watermelon and the brushing of white cotton, billowing at open windows.
“Am I sleeping? Am I blind?”
Confusion mounting as vivid memories of summer disappeared. She turned away. The cold began biting again.
“Hello? Help. I don’t know which way to go.”
She managed to put her hand up to her face and realised she was whimpering. Why was she sad? She couldn’t remember, but the sadness was tangible. It was squished in between her fingers and molding with the sticky black. Her hands displaced it like little Davie’s playdough. David! Where was her Davie?
The light became blinding. Welcoming the warmth, she tried to move faster. Her body would not reciprocate the urge. There was a feeling of unexplained urgency to get to the light – and to find Davie. A Feeling of contentment drew her towards the magnetic Jasmine.
A faint cry. She put her hand out to touch it. The realisation knocked her backwards and she hurtled towards the cold, the wind ripping up her hair. Davie was gone. She remembered. She could still feel his little fingers, as they released pressure while he passed his last strangled breath.
The brutal sadness engulfed her. So many pills at once proved more difficult than she had planned. They had scratched her throat, and were threatening to come up again. No – they were going down, like a pipe forcing it’s way into her lungs. The sad cold was unbearable. She gave up and let it take her. It dumped her on the sheets. Her body was limp, aching for the warm scent of jasmine.
“I have a pulse doctor!” shouted a woman.
A cacophony of beeping as hands roughly busied themselves around her face.
“Respirate!” replied a man. “Vitals are stable, transfer to surgery.”
The tear forced it’s way out of it’s crevice and down her temple and evaporated with the warm jasmine scent.