Blue. That’s all I can remember. Later they told me that I jumped, but I only see blue. Sometimes, if I think really hard, I can see you. But that’s only sometimes.
It’s strange, I thought that I would never have found myself here – I mean, does anyone? Chained to a hospital bed, arms held to my sides, IVs pumping strange cold liquid into my bloodstream.
I’m dreaming now. It’s vivid, what I see. Every time I drift off, I hope to rid myself of the worried, anxious faces gathered around me, crying sometimes, checking my papers, eating food.
My dream – it’s the same start every time. My breath stalls, my eyes bulge, I’m surrounded by blue. Light flickers in through sheets of aqua, darkness grabs me by chilling indigo, air bubbles fly by, late for some meeting they marked up on their calendars too long ago to remember. And I sink down to the depths and watch the aqua sheets slowly turn to navy then indigo then black.
But now I’m awake again and they’re trying to ask me something. They’re always trying to ask me something. Why? They always sob to me when the figures in the white coats leave. They don’t speak when the stiff bodies in white are in the room. The white coats ask me easier questions, things like, Can you see this, can you feel this, are you hungry?
The crowded room makes me anxious. I start to ask myself the question they hurl at me – why? I’m still not sure. I’m not even too sure where I am or what got me here. The only thing I know for sure is blue.
Well, blue and you. My memory is lined with uncertainty and the strain of thinking forces me into sleep. Blue envelopes my mind, pressing down uncomfortably until I can’t breathe anymore. I claw around, scratch toward the flickering light I see above me. I don’t want to reach the top but my lungs are begging, pleading. They bargain with me, Please, please, we’ll change; we’ll do anything, just take us to the top! I can’t, I tell them, The top is what made this happen, The top is what did this to you. My lungs fight back, resist. But I’ve won, and the pressure is gone and I’m floating in peace and the top doesn’t exist and blue carries me through the current like a lamb in shepherd’s arms.
I awake as if breaking the surface of water, I gasp and gulp down stale hospital air. I flail around as much as possible in my restraints. The people freeze, eyebrows knit tightly together, hands uncomfortably clenching. One woman starts hysterically crying and runs out. For the first time since I’ve been here, I look around more studiously. Faces, blurred and forgotten, stare back at me and my mind starts to work itself into anxiety again. But wait. At the end of the long line is you – and I can see more than blue.
Memories roll across my mind like an old film. Friendship, love, summer, trees, snow, winter, ice, heartbreak, you. And I see the bridge. I see my arms arc above me and I feel the rocks zipped into my heavy coat and I remember thinking how heavy it was, diving into the river. I had a note taped to the bench by the bridge. A warm tingle of embarrassment passes through me when I realize that the sad blurry faces must have read it and that’s the reason they’re asking me, why?
Time has passed now. I’m out of the sterile white hospital with restraints and needles and food trays. It’s strange, people have stopped asking me why but I haven’t stopped seeing blue. That’s life, I suppose. Normalcy is equilibrium. But I can’t seem to get there. I’ll just have to get used to seeing blue.