Although her warm breath near my face does feel nice, and her soft touch isn't completely intolerable.
I focus hard and try to decipher what she is saying. Imani, her name is Imani. She wants me to wake up. I can't, damn it. Wake me up, Imani. If you want to do something for me, wake me the fuck up.
I plead with her silently in the dark to wake me up, but she doesn't, she can't.
After another commercial break in this fucking horror flick, I am aware of Imani’s presence again. Whatever she’s doing feels amazing. I can’t wrap my mind around the sensation, but I know I am missing out on something important.
She's close, so close I can smell her. She smells like a mixture of cotton candy and clean linen. She’s touching me slowly, my face, my arms, hands, my chest. I want to reach out and grab her wrists and stop her. No one touches me without my permission.
But another part of me longs to flip her over, tie her up, and put my mouth all over her.
I need to wake up, why can’t I wake up? Fuck, will it always be this way? Is this how I'm destined to spend eternity? Paying for the sins of my life trapped in my body vulnerable and without control?
Good call, God.
This is the perfect hell for me. Marcus Castillo doesn’t do weak or controlled.
She’s still doing whatever it is she's doing. I feel her working her way down my body to my leg and now my foot. Oh, lady, I love that. She’s getting me hard as fuck. I wonder if she’s going to take care of that part of me as well?
I am grateful for what she's doing. I happen to be very particular about cleanliness, some call it obsessive, and maybe it is, but I would never admit that to anyone other than myself.
I want her to stop, I want her to do more, I want control of her. I want to fucking wake up!!!
It feels like I've been here forever. I can hear voices, but it's hard to make them out. They sound like they are at the other end of a long tunnel far away and muted.
One of them is a woman, not my cotton-candy-laced Imani, but another familiar voice, my sister Elena.
Shit, if she's here, this must be awful. She would never come unless I were dying. Shit, I'm dying.
Terror rocks me, the idea of my life ending used to be appealing, but now… now all I want to do is see the woman attached to the voice of my angel. I want to keep feeling her fingers on my flesh, inhaling her sweet scent.
I know without a shadow of a doubt, because of Imani, that I am not ready to leave.
I have lived my life in such a way that if I die right now, I am going straight to hell. I need to fight. I want to give myself time for redemption, time to meet Imani, and see the face that belongs to that magnetic beautiful voice.
Another voice begins to float through my brain fog. This one is a man. It sounds like Elijah. What the fuck is he doing here? And why is he talking to Elena?
They sound so distorted and far away, I can't understand what they're saying. That fucker had better be taking care of my business while I’m wherever the hell I am or, so help me, I will kill him when I wake up.
He knows working for me means his life is on the line if he doesn't. Ruling ruthlessly, that’s what makes me so successful, fear is a human's biggest motivator, and I instill it in everyone I meet.
My theory is being proven correct in my current situation. Fear of death is motivating me, but the pain is distracting. I need to find a way out of this dark black abyss.
Imani is the key that will unlock the gates of my hell.
I have to keep holding onto her voice until she brings me back.
She’s the one with the power.
She's the only one I'd go back for.
Chapter 7
It’s my third night in a row with Marcus, and I’m already stressing about being off the next few nights.
At home, I won’t have the reassurance of his deep, even breathing or the ability to check on him regularly. But worst of all, I risk not being the first person he sees when he wakes up.
In my experience, patients who have suffered trauma to the brain either start to come around a week or two into their recovery or they slip away forever. I'm not letting him slip away, and it's been almost two weeks, so the likelihood of him waking up soon is high.
I pop a K-cup in my Keurig, wait the five seconds it takes to brew, and pour way too much creamer in my travel mug. To most people, I’m ruining the authentic taste of coffee, but I don’t care, I like it sweet. My drive to work is robotic. I stop at all of the familiar intersections, turn left and right multiple times down the dark roads of Seattle until I'm in my parking spot with no memory of the drive.
I had a genius idea when I was dancing in the shower this afternoon.
Music.
It’s healing and moving, and it brings me up when I'm down and calms me when I'm feeling anxious. I have a plan to help Marcus break through the membrane that's been separating him from the world and me for the past two weeks.
I made a few playlists for Marcus, and I brought my earbuds so he can listen to them. It’s a risk since I have no idea what kind of music he likes. I struggled when choosing the music, but, in the end, I went with one classical playlist. One is of the relaxing sounds of nature and the last is a combination of all of my personal favorites. I listen to a wide variety of love songs, jazz, Latin, and alternative music. I hope there is something in there that will speak to him.
I haven’t asked permission to do this, and I’m not going to; it just feels right. I have a strong, unexplainable urge to do whatever it takes to wake him up. It’s like the universe is nudging me, telling me to help him.
It’s a slow night at work, just the way I like it. It gives me more time to study Marcus. I’ve memorized his skin, every scar, every birthmark and freckle. I will never forget the tiny crow’s feet at the outer corners of his eyes as well as a place on his cheek where I imagine a dimple might form when he smiles.
He has a lifetime of scars spattering his skin that document fights, injuries, and possibly abuse. The scars he wears are threatening and ugly for such a perfect body. They are the only things separating him from complete perfection.
He is in bad need of a haircut, but his face is freshly shaven as of a couple of hours ago. Elena brought his toiletries to the hospital today. He has the most delicious smelling shaving and hair products, not overwhelming but just good enough to make you want to be closer to him.
He doesn’t smell like a typical hospital patient anymore. The fragrance of spearmint and eucalyptus fills his room replacing the simple smell of soap. The beautiful glass bottles are covered with foreign labels from France and Italy. I don’t recognize any of them, but I’ve never traveled overseas like my globetrotting patient, so I wouldn’t.
I place my phone on the bed next to him and an earbud in his left ear and the other in my own to test the volume. I set the music low just in case he finds a way to communicate that he’s uncomfortable listening to it, then I remove my ear bud and place it on the bed.
I move about the room, giving his scheduled medications and doing range of motion exercises with his arms and his good leg. I keep a watchful eye on him for any sign of pain as I work his muscles and monitor his heart rate.
I also watch carefully for any reaction to the music. There is nothing obvious, but I swear his face looks more relaxed, less severe, and his scowl isn’t as pronounced.