Page 14 of Two Kinds of Stranger

First, there was darkness.

Then, Elly found herself standing at the top of a staircase in Grand Central. In the subway. She was watching a yellow suitcase as it tumbled down the long staircase, turning and whirling through the air, making deafening bangs as its corners hit the stairs and then launched upwards, and then back down, that sound hurting her ears every time, echoing in her chest, her entire body feeling the impact vibration, and the steps went on, and on, and on, down and down into nothingness. . .

Here and there, for mere moments, she saw different images.

A man with round, wire-rimmed glasses and curly brown hair. He had a kindly face and a white coat, like a doctor, and thick lips that parted as he stared down at her. His hand on her brow. His thumb gently tugging her eyelids, and then a blinding white light that burned her eyes and stayed there even after she closed them.

She saw him a few times.

Her stomach hurt.

Her throat hurt.

Her head was pounding.

And the dream. . .

The suitcase thumping off the sharp corners of the stairs, tumbling, and then thumping, and every hit was a pulse that sent a shockwave of pain through her skull.

Pounding pain.

And then her eyes opened, and she was looking at a dark ceiling. Painted white. It must’ve been nighttime.

But her body was surrounded by a white veil hanging down. Like the veil that lines a coffin. . .

Elly felt the panic rise. She wasn’t supposed to be dead. She couldn’t be.

She was twenty-seven years old. And she wasn’t dead.

But the veil was so white and clear.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted, depth perception returning.

It wasn’t a coffin veil. It was the curtain surrounding a bed.

Her hospital bed.

Elly’s head hurt so bad. Her throat. She couldn’t speak and her stomach was in pieces. Like she had swallowed a bellyful of acid.

She tried to feel her tummy, but she couldn’t move her left arm. Her right hand moved, and she was able to hold it in front of her eyes. There was a sharp jab of pain on the back of her hand. She saw the butterfly needle taped there, and a drip line attached to it.

But her left arm would only move a little.

She had no memory. No idea how she got there.

The effort of moving her right arm was too much. Her eyes felt heavy, and she couldn’t keep them open no matter how hard she tried.

The darkness. Welcome. Restful.

And then the dream. . .the suitcase, and the noise of it hitting the stairs. . .

‘Elly. . .’ said a voice.

She opened her eyes and realized instantly it was no longer night. Sun came in behind her. She could see it burning the doctor’s white coat, making the sunbeam seem otherworldly, like a shaft of light from heaven catching an angel’s wing.

It was him. The kind doctor with the wire-rimmed glasses and thick lips.

‘Elly. . .do you know where you are?’