I’m not fighting it, I promise her. I’ve accepted it.
“The tube, Ryan,” she says. “Don’t fight the breathing tube.”
What is she talking about?
The dark is dissipating. It’s a slow process, but my lashes finally part and I find myself staring up at a white expanse.
Ice?
No. A ceiling.
Machines.
Something inside my mouth, in my throat, choking me. I panic, thrash about, try to take it out.
“Don’t fight it,” a familiar voice says, and through my blurry vision I think I see a girl with copper curls and wide eyes.
I know her. I’m sure I know her. Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?
“It’s a breathing tube,” a guy says, coming to stand beside her, and I know him, too. Dark hair, pale eyes, broad shoulders. “Calm down.”
I try. God, I try, fighting panic. There’s no air.
“Step back,” another woman says, “we need to suction the tube clean.”
Everything is confused after that, more confused, colors and shapes bleeding into each other, the sounds dimming. Holy fuck, I’m drifting down again.
I want back up. That girl, and that guy…I want to go back to them. But I’m sinking and sinking into blackness.
Am I destined to live forever at the bottom of this lake, alone? Is this what death is like?
Well, shit.
***
I blink crusted lashes, staring up at… the ceiling. That’s right.
No lake. No ice. No dead faces and claws. And I’m breathing, seemingly on my own. I lick my cracked lips, my tongue swollen and painful. The tube is gone, though trying to swallow is like being stabbed repeatedly in the throat.
Breathing fucking hurts. My chest hurts. I feel as if a truck fell on top of me, then a ship, and then a plane.
Whoa, the room is spinning.
I close my eyes, but open them again at the sound of a voice. A new voice.
A familiar voice. A familiar face leaning over me. Deep lines at the corner of his eyes, a thin mouth, bushy brows.
“Ryan,” he says. “Can you hear me?”
I try again to lick my lips and give up. “Dad?” I croak.
He smiles. His whole face transforms, and he looks younger. He looks happy. “There you are.”
Yeah. Here. Wherever that is.
He gives me some water that I suck through a straw, and just that small action makes me pant with exhaustion.
At least my tongue feels less like a sausage wrapped in sandpaper.