VISIBILITY Magazine Issue 02. (April 2017) - Page 36

the pangs of anxiety come up. What…what had happened to me? When could I get back into my body? Why didn’t I go to church with Momma when she told me to? Maybe Jesus could provide a helping hand right about now. Did…did this mean I was dead? The nurse called for the doctor. He said that they’d called Momma, and she was still on her way. They were honest. The situation didn’t look good. I had severe damage to my lungs, my heart, my brain. Broken bones. Yes, Mrs. Morris, I’m afraid that’s so. I wanted to be in my body. I wanted to be in my body, so that I could sob. So that my hands could shake and my breaths would shorten. I wanted to have a panic attack, just so I could feel something. Not be here, on this fucking ceiling, bodyless like the Big Face from Nick Junior. Except I didn’t feel bright. I didn’t want to make PB&J. I wanted to be alive. I wanted someone to hold me and say this was all a bad dream. That this was a bad nightmare, the kind that feels so real, I can touch and smell in it. The kind I get when I don’t ever want to get out of bed or even wake up. I looked down at myself again. My skin had a greenish cast. My face was covered in nicks, broken glass filling my acne scars. They’d already put my hands in my lap, folded them neatly, so they could slide me right into the coffin. Momma rushed in, Sage right after her. Great. I ruined Sage’s fucking birthday. When she saw my body, Momma fell straight to the ground. She collapsed on her knees and screamed loud enough to wake up the morgue. Momma, I’m right here. I’m here, please. But she couldn’t hear me. No one could, and it seemed like no one would ever again. Sage had her hands on Momma’s back, tears everywhere. Everyone else was probably in the lobby, questioning how a night of lobster dip and beer turned into blood and embalming fluid. This wasn’t what I expected, what I had hoped for. There was no life flashing before my eyes. I saw the life being sucked from my body, my broken chest rattling off breaths one by one. I saw Momma tell them 29 the pangs of anxiety come up. What…what had happened to me? When could I get back into my body? Why didn’t I go to church with Mom- ma when she told me to? Maybe Jesus could provide a helping hand right about now. Did…did this mean I was dead? The nurse called for the doctor. He said that they’d called Momma, and she was still on her way. They were honest. The situation didn’t look good. I had severe damage to my lungs, my heart, my brain. Broken bones. Yes, Mrs. Morris, I’m afraid that’s so. I wanted to be in my body. I wanted to be in my body, so that I could sob. So that my hands could shake and my breaths would shorten. I wanted to have a panic attack, just so I could feel something. Not be here, on this fucking ceiling, bodyless like the Big Face from Nick Junior. Except I didn’t feel bright. I didn’t want to make PB&J. I wanted to be alive. I wanted someone to hold me and say this was all a bad dream. That this was a bad nightmare, the kind that feels so real, I can touch and smell in it. The kind I get when I don’t ever want to get out of bed or even wake up. I looked down at myself again. My skin had a green- ish cast. My face was covered in nicks, broken glass filling my acne scars. They’d already put my hands in my lap, folded them neatly, so they could slide me right into the coffin. Momma rushed in, Sage right af- ter her. Great. I ruined Sage’s fucking birthday. When she saw my body, Momma fell straight to the ground. She collapsed on her knees and screamed loud enough to wake up the morgue. Momma, I’m right here. I’m here, please. But she couldn’t hear me. No one could, and it seemed like no one would ever again. Sage had her hands on Momma’s back, tears everywhere. Everyone else was probably in the lobby, questioning how a night of lobster dip and beer turned into blood and embalming fluid. This wasn’t what I expected, what I had hoped for. There was no li ͡ɔ䁕̸$ͅ܁ѡ)Սɽ䁉䰁䁉ɽЁɅд)ѱɕѡ́䁽$ͅ܁5ѕѡ(