Morning Chill

Uggghh, ow, ow, ow, my head!

Think I’ll just lie here for a minute in the dark.

Damn, it’s cold, am I on the floor?

Maybe I should look around...

Ugh spins, maybe not.

Aww, man... What if I’m on somebody else’s floor?

What did I do last night? I can’t remember…

Oh God! First date and I get blackout trashed?!

I really hope I’m on my own floor.

I don’t hear anything, no breathing, no traffic, no creaking walls or floors or neighbors blundering around, nothing.

Wait, is that a humming? Yes, it sounds like the fridge in my kitchen.

Please God, I really hope I'm in my kitchen.

Okay, if I’m in my kitchen it might not be too bad, just a bitch of a hangover.

Let’s see, what do I remember?

Oh yeah, mmmm, that hot guy from the cafe. Oliver. So handsome. So sophisticated. I could listen to that English accent for ever.

We finally got to talk.

I remember now. We talked for more than an hour in the cafe before I had to get back to work -late, but SO worth it.

He asked me out! Said he didn’t want our conversation to end. He liked my green eyes.

Oh. My. God. He's everything I've wanted in a guy since I was little.

I was a complete waste of space at work for the rest of the afternoon. Clothes; dress or skirt? Hair up or down? Perfume or not? Hoping my car isn’t too scroungy.

I was a gibbering fool.

Oh, hey, that’s right... I thought we were going to meet at the restaurant, that Japanese place, the expensive one up town, but he picked me up.

Color me surprised.

And oh my God, that car! I hope the creep in 2-A saw me climbing into the sexy, shiny new Jaguar. Maybe he’ll get the hint and stop pestering me.

Okay, I remember the ride into the city, getting to the restaurant, being seated. Wow, nice place. Elegant Japanese artwork, --the swooshy black paint stroke kind-- elaborate flower displays and soft ambient lighting cast by hundreds of candles. Candles everywhere, on the tables, the bar, the hostess stand and on shelves that line every wall. Even the windowsills had small candles lined up side by side.

We sit on the floor, shoes off, on beautiful silk brocade cushions. I can see light from the many candles flickering in the window glass. The effect creates a halo of sparkling light around Oliver’s head reminding me just how handsome he is and a whole herd of butterflies join a rumba line in my belly. We peruse the menu which is all Greek to me, well Japanese, but still completely unreadable. Oliver knows all the dishes so he helps me by giving me a blow by blow of each item on the menu. When he gets to the restaurant’s specialty he describes it as the one thing in the world I need to try before I tap dance over the rainbow bridge. It was fish, ick, ick ick. I told him I don’t really like fish but he said I just had to try this one. What was it called? Something odd. Fughi? Lugo? Fugu, that’s it. Fugu. So I decided to give it a go. I did not want to disappoint this guy right off the bat. I wanted to see what came after dessert.

We drank tea from a fragile looking pot, hand painted with graceful lilies and fitted with a bamboo handle, that had mysteriously appeared on the table. Those waitresses must have cloaking devices. It was a fragrant, almost sweet and slightly spicy blend, nothing like any tea I've ever tasted. It was dreamy.

I felt regal, special. It’s a feeling I would love to get used to.

I remember the meal. There was a light salad-type thing with a tangy sweet dressing and the fish really was good, it had a delicate taste, not fishy at all, I liked it.

But then I started to feel woozy and kind of buzzy. It felt like I was floating inside my body but not touching it from the inside. It’s hard to explain.

I asked for water because the feeling continued to get more buzzy and floaty, but that’s when I lose track of things.

We didn’t have any alcohol.

So why do I feel this way? And why am I on the floor?

I guess I have to bite the bullet and look.

I’m going to be well and truly pissed if this guy roofied me.

Okay here goes, 3,2,1

Open.

OPEN!

Hunh?! Why won’t my eyes open?!

Is this a dream?

It’s gotta be a dream.

Clack! A door opening? Light spills in.

My eyes are open.

All I can see is stainless steel but when I try to blink or turn my head, nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

Nothing moves.

I don't understand. I can feel the cold in my whole body but I can't move anything.

My heart should be pounding but all I can feel is a quick fluttery feeling in my chest, combined with the cold and the sharp pain in my head.

I should be panting but I’m not.

Am I even breathing?

I’m not breathing!

Wait. Maybe?

The stainless steel above me begins to move with a rolling sound and almost immediately I see bright lights. Ceiling lights.

They’re too bright. They hurt all the way to the back of my already pounding head and drown out everything else, but I can’t squint or close my eyes against them.

There are voices. I hear a man and a woman. They’re talking about something on the news. “There was an accident on I-9”. the man says, “we’ll be busy once the cops get finished.”

“Yeah”, says the woman “we’d better get going on this one so we can free up the table.”

The face of a stalwart, determined looking woman appears over me finally blocking the light.

I try to blink, to speak, to, yell, to twitch, wiggle, anything to get her to see me. To see that I need help. She’s in a white coat with a plastic apron over it and a clear plastic face shield. I think she’s a doctor. She looks like a doctor.

Why won’t she help me?!

“Would you bring me that pen light, Ollie? I think the eyes on this one look, I don’t know, odd.” She cocks her head and looks me right in the eyes, left then right. She flashes a few quick flicks of the light into one and then the other. She’s so close I just know that if I can move an eyelid or finger, do something, she’ll see. “For a moment I thought I saw the pupils contract.”

Then Oliver’s face comes into my vision and I know.

This is not just a roofie.

“It must have been a trick of the light.” he says with a tiny smirk on his lips that I can tell is just for me.

“Guess you’re right.” says the woman and I can hear her pulling the cloth covers off trays of instruments. “Any particulars on this one? Do we know where or how she was found? There doesn’t seem to be any exterior trauma. No contusions, no abrasions. I don’t smell alcohol so she didn’t succumb to over indulgence. Maybe she had heart issues.”

Oliver looks up from a clipboard, “Nothing from medical yet, no ID so no records. She was lying right in the middle of the street, apparently. Some poor guy headed to work said he almost ran her over. He called P.D. and the rest is history and lying right here in front of us.”

How can I be hearing this!? Things aren't supposed to happen this way!

HELP!! I scream and scream with only the memory of what a scream feels or sounds like. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound but I’m here!

I’m here!

Please see me!

Please!!

The woman moves out of view again and I hear the clank and rattle of metal on metal. I know she’s placing the instruments on the tray in the order she needs to work with and if this is anything like the cop shows on TV I know what’s coming next. The scalpel.

NO, no, no, no, no! I scream silently.

There’s a brief flash of light as the razor sharp surgical instrument catches a beam from the overheads and the slice begins. Pain springs up in my right shoulder and burns a line down to the center of my chest.

The shrieks in my head become so loud that the sound ungulates with a warbling wobble distorting even the thought process required to scream.

Then the scalpel sinks into my left shoulder and a second line of fire slides down to meet the first between my breasts. And then the final slice from my chest to my lower belly. I’m floating in an undulating sea of searing pain, like there’s a fire burning inside my belly blistering and consuming my insides as it rolls and flares.

As I feel myself being devoured by waves of pain another flash of light, tinged with brilliant red this time, off the scalpel blade that now hovers over my face. The woman says, “What a beautiful color green her eyes are. I almost hate to take them but you have a buyer right?

“I do” says Oliver, “and that green will look ever so lovely in her face.”

The screams in my head fade with the light that flashes along the delicate blade as it slowly, gently slides under the lid and a fresh dash of cold fire fills my head to replace them and the darkness creeps in from all sides.