Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
A child’s face.
Belinda.
And the flatline.
Always the flatline.
“No,” I manage to croak out with what little energy I have left. “No…not yet.”
But then another sound blends in with the unwelcome silence—a shrill ringing that slices through the dull hum of the machines like a knife through butter. It’s my phone, tucked away in the pocket of my robe hanging off the chair next to my bed.
The ringing doesn’t stop. It continues relentlessly, each chime reverberating in my head like a resounding echo in an empty cavern. I summon all my strength to sit up and retrieve the phone, every muscle screaming with effort as I extend an arm and grasp it.
I press, press, press the button. Bring it to my ear.
But the ringing…
It doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t stop.
It continues, a sharp, jarring contrast to the now silent heart monitor. I try to say something, but no words come out, as if the cold of the room has frozen my vocal cords. My head swims as I fight against a rising tide of nausea and inexplicable fear.
“Hello?” It’s more of a croak than a word, barely audible over the relentless chiming.
No response on the other end.
Silence.
Silence so sudden it’s jarring.
The ringing stops. For a moment, all I can hear are my own ragged breaths echoing in the sterile silence of the hospital room.
Just as I am about to hang up, I hear it. A whisper on the other end of the line—so soft, so faint that I almost miss it.
“Raven…”
I grip the phone tighter. “Who’s there?”
Again, the soft whisper.
“Raven…”
It sounds familiar, somewhere deep within my memory, a voice long forgotten. A female voice, shrouded in the mists of time and pain.
“Who are you?” I demand, trying to find strength in my voice.
The room feels colder, more hostile.
The silence stretches on, leaving me hanging by a thread. My heart pounds like a drum, each beat echoing the ticking clock on the wall above me.
Finally, the voice speaks again. “Remember…”
Then nothing.
Only silence.
I keep the phone pressed against my ear for what feels like forever, straining to catch any other whisper that might come through. But it’s useless.
All I hear is the silence and my own labored breathing.
Remember…
The word echoes in my head like a silent scream. Remember what? What does the voice want from me? My mind races through several possibilities, but nothing seems to fit. The past is a muddle of fragmented memories, treatment sessions, and painful goodbyes. Sifting through it feels like walking through a maze with no exit in sight.
My head throbs as if my brain is trying to physically push out the memories lodged deep within me. I wince, pressing my free hand to my forehead as if that may somehow alleviate the pain.
Flashes of faces flicker before my eyes—my parents, my siblings, friends, doctors, Vinnie—but none of them match up with the voice on the phone. I squint at each image, trying to force a connection, a semblance of recognition, but I come up empty each time.
The room darkens around me, shadows creeping over the stark hospital walls as night falls. The cold seeps in deeper.
I’m alone.
Utterly alone.
I open my mouth to call for a nurse…
But my voice. It’s gone.
The machines make no more sound.
I look around the sterile room.
Everything is in black and white.
I’m not here.
I’m not here.
I’m not here…
I jolt upward in bed, the dream still fresh in my mind.
My heart is pounding like it wants to escape my chest, each beat a thunderous echo in the still darkness of the room. Beads of cold sweat trickle down my forehead and drop onto the sheets. I am alone, and for a moment, I struggle to remember where I am.
Reality slowly sinks into me.
I am not in a hospital. I am home, safe and warm under piles of blankets in my own bed. The rhythmic ticking of the clock on my bedside table lulls me back, bringing with it a sort of comfort.
“The dream…” I murmur to myself as I rub my hand over my fuzzy head.
I shake off the remnants of fear that gripped me so tightly just moments ago.
That voice.
That haunting whisper telling me to remember.
To remember what?
I reach out blindly in the dark for a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. The condensation makes it slippery. I bring it to my lips, the water cool and refreshing as it trickles down my parched throat.
It’s not the first time I’ve had this dream. I had versions of it a lot during my cancer treatment. I always assumed it was a side-effect of the chemo.
The dream is always so vivid.
Too vivid.
The sterile walls of a hospital room, the relentless ringing of a phone, the lack of color at the end…
And Vinnie.
Vinnie’s face that disappeared in front of me and sent me hurtling back into that hospital bed.
That’s new. Of course, I didn’t know him when I had the dream during my treatment.