Page 60 of Brain Damage

I’m coming home from work late in the evening, and it must have been raining, because my hair is sopping wet and plastered to my scalp. I step out of the elevator, into the dimly lit hallway. It’s very quiet. I hear the muted thumps of my feet hitting the carpeted floor in the hallway outside my apartment, making little damp patches on the floor with each step. I reach my door, last apartment on the right. I put my key in the lock.

The door swings shut behind me as my left hand absently feels around for the light switch. I flick the switch. Let there be light.

Then I see it. The gun pointed straight at me. My blood turns to ice. I want to scream, but I can’t.

I hear the explosion.

For a moment, everything is black. Well, not entirely black. Crimson, actually. Like my corneas are coated in a layer of blood.

Then the crimson fades away and I’m staring up at the ceiling of my apartment. I recognize the crack that sort of looks like a dinosaur. I meant to get the ceiling repainted. I’ve just been too busy. I’m always so, so busy.

I try to get up, but I can’t move. My body doesn’t seem to work anymore. I feel sick, dizzy. There’s something really wrong with me. I’m injured. Actually, I think I’m dying. I think this might be the end.

And that’s when I hear the footsteps. Heavy shoes rising and falling on the wooden floor. The footsteps stop right next to my left ear. I try to see the shoes, to identify them, but I can’t. My left side has dissolved into a giant void.

I can hear the floorboards creak as the person bends down next to me. I may be dying, but I’m not dead yet, and I suspect this person intends to finish the job. I try to turn my head, to capture my left side. But all I can grasp is more ceiling.

I try to remember Amy’s instructions: turn left, scan left. But it’s as useless now as it is during our sessions.

The person leans in closer to me, so close that I can feel hot breath on my neck. And then I hear a husky voice speaking to me, right in my ear:

“You deserve this.”

And then I wake up, drenched in sweat.

I feel so tired today.

My body feels so heavy. My arms feel like they weigh a thousand pounds each. My head weighs one ton. The effort of keeping it on my shoulders is just too much for me.

I don’t really feel like eating right now, even though my lunch tray is right in front of me. When they came to get me to walk this morning, I didn’t feel like doing that. I told them no. All I want is to go back to bed.

That guy who always sits next to me in the hallway is sitting next to me now. I forget his name. It starts with a “J,” I think. He’s trying to talk to me. I’m too tired to talk though. I’m too tired to even tell him that I’m too tired to talk. I wish he would stop talking to me and just let me go back to sleep. I wish somebody would take me back to my room and put me in bed.

The doctor comes over to us to talk. I can’t remember his name either. I’m having trouble remembering names today. Why does everyone have to have a different name? It’s so hard to remember. Everyone should have the same name.

Maybe the doctor can bring me to bed. I might be too tired to ask him though.

“Dr. Williams,” says the guy next to me. Oh right, the doctor’s name is Dr. Williams. I need to try to remember that. I wish I weren’t so tired. “There’s something wrong with Charly today.”

The doctor raises his graying eyebrows. He has smiley faces on his tie. They dance around before my eyes. “Is there? Why do you say that?”

“She’s not talking,” the guy says. He looks worried. He has a little crease between his eyebrows. He’s very cute. I wish I could remember his name. “She hasn’t said a word since she got out into the hallway, and she’s not eating her lunch.”

The doctor smiles. I forgot his name again. Dammit. “Well, Jamie, I’m sure you know that Charly isn’t the most talkative person.”

“She always talks to me,” the guy insists. “Always.” He takes a breath. “The first thing I remember clearly after getting hurt is sitting here in the hallway, talking to her.”

I stare at smiley faces on the doctor’s tie. They look blurry for some reason.

“Charly’s recovery is going to be slower than yours,” the doctor says to him. “Her injury was much more severe. She’s going to fluctuate day-to-day.”

“No,” the guy says, shaking his head. “There’s something wrong, Doc. I know it.”

The doctor steps toward me. The smiley faces become clear for a minute, then become blurry again. I just need to sleep, just a little bit. Please. Please.

“Charly,” the doctor says. “How are you feeling today?”

I’m feeling tired.