Nonconformity | Henry Creel

The First Stage

For a while, there was nothing. I wasn't sure how long I had been out, but it was long enough for my limbs to feel numb and my head to pound with tiredness that was almost tangible. My consciousness was strained, coming and going in waves.

Finally, after what felt like hours, there was a slow, steady swelling of light just ahead of my eyelids. It was with great effort that I finally managed to open my eyes, and even then, I couldn't see. At least not for long. An abundance of sheer, white light invaded my every thought, and then my eyes clamped shut again.

Motherfucker.

I waited for a few moments, and then I resumed the remarkably laborious task of opening my eyes. I allowed the harsh, white light to flood my vision, and when I could comfortably observe my surroundings, I was dumbfounded all the more.

Wherever I was, it was medical. Equipment of all kinds surrounded me, neatly arranged, unused, and completely lacking in any identifying details. Where the hell was I? It looked like something out of purgatory. Colorless and muted with its white walls, white floors, and white lights, utterly devoid of warmth. I sat on a bed with the same colorless sheets. Beside me was a singular chair, and ahead of me was a counter.

I appeared to be in some sort of hospital. But how had I gotten here? What happened to me? My panic began festering when I realized I couldn't remember anything. My age, my name, my favorite color, they all came up blank.

I closed my eyes and clasped my shaking hands into fists, burrowing deep inside my head for a memory that could answer any of my ever-increasing questions. However, I discovered there was nothing but a shadow in the back of my mind, eluding to whatever had been.

Before I had any more time to wallow in my panic, a metal door I hadn't noticed opened at my right, and in stormed a man I didn't recognize. He wore a crisp, freshly ironed suit. His stark white hair was combed to perfection, and when he sat in the chair beside my bed, I marveled at the sharp, practiced way in which he moved.

"Sixteen," He said with a soft smile, "Lovely to meet you."

I stared at him blankly.

"How did I get here?"

"Skipping the pleasantries then, hm?" The man chuckled warmly, "You had an accident. Don't you remember?"

My breath was caught in my throat. Perhaps it was the grogginess from my sleep, but it took me a few moments to process his question. And even then, I didn't answer for a long while. I tried to force myself to remember; to delve deeper into the shadow which haunted my subconscious, but just like before, I had no answers. "No," My voice was a whisper, "No, I don't remember anything."

Something like a smile formed on his face. An unsettling beat of silence passed, and then he said, "You experienced a seizure, I'm afraid. Your insufficient memory is likely a result of damage to your hippocampus." He tapped a spot on my head, "In your temporal lobe. But don't worry, you're in good hands."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, "Will it come back? My memory?"

The man frowned, sympathy practically dripping from his tongue as he spoke, "There's no way to be sure, but I wouldn't hold my breath. The brain is a uniquely delicate organ and even the smallest injury can prove detrimental."

I choked on all the questions that swelled up my throat. My composure-- or at least what was left of it-- began cracking. I didn't want to cry in front of him. I didn't want to cry at all. Yet I was caught in a riptide that pulled me further and further from land. Before I knew it, I was alone in the cruel, opulent sea, surrounded by water on all sides. I had nothing but my legs, fruitlessly kicking, desperate to keep my head from slipping underneath the surface.