Combustion

Chapter 1

Combustion

Part 1: Violet

Chapter 1

Copyright 2015

     White. This time, pure, angelic, comforting. The dull murmur and mix of voices, electronic, coming from a TV. Crying, sobbing, from a woman maybe. Hushed conversation beside her. The steady pacing of beeps, a whir of a running machine. Peaceful sunlight dappling my eyelids. The channel changed. A dispute. The TV turned off. Everything, was serene and comforting, yet tragedy and awkwardness pulsed across the room. Sniffles approached me and pulled a wool blanket on to my body. It was warm, soft, like an embrace.

     Everything felt familiar, as if I had been waiting here for weeks. No- this was all new. Where am I? I felt disconnected from myself. My breathing felt regulated by something else. My fingers wouldn't move, even after many attempts; I was left only with the small weight of my fingertips gracing the dove-like sheets. My hair was long now, frizzy and overgrown; it teased my cheeks. I felt glued, my eyes unable to open, my body unable to move, my mouth unable to ask for clarification.

     Voices. "Ma'am, we need to begin soon." Stern, professional, a hint of care or sympathy.

     "Oh, okay. I'm- I'm gonna just, let me just..." Distressed, breaking every other moment for a sob. "Violet." The voice rang in my ear now. My name. Wait, it wasn't. "I thought I'd play your favorite song. You played it on the violin, remember?" No. Yes. No. "Anyways, I really, really wish you'd sit up and talk to me. Don't give up, not like this. There's still so much you have to do. Please, Violet." I'm tired of your pressure, mom.

     Mom? The thought had played like a cassette tape, I don't think it was mine. My mom, she was dead. Cancer, I think. And my mom didn't have an accent.

     Like a flood, I was rushed over with recognition of all the unfamiliar things. I didn't have a mom. I didn't have long hair. Yes, I did. But wait, my stomach. An eerie feeling settled in above all the confusion. My skin felt wider. My skin felt wider. It felt as if someone had opened up my stomach, skin open like box flaps, left to lay haphazardly on the angel blankets. Suddenly, I found myself shrieking. My lips parted, finally under my control, and let out a song of frustration rooted so deeply in me.

     "Stop!" I yelled, jolting upright like an undead mummy. My eyes flew open faster than it could take in the light that greeted them. Was that my voice? It was. It wasn't. I was too busy trying to stir the rest of my body, attempting to repair my exposed stomach, that I didn't the buzz arising around me.

     "Holy hell!"

     "It's a miracle!"

     "Violet!?"

     "She's alive, I told you!"

     "Oh my god, oh my god! Stop everything! Stop it all!" Stop, my own words echoed back at me. But what needed to end so abruptly? What was about to happen?

     Myself. I was different. My skin was paler, almost alabaster, painted with sloppily scattered shades of copper. My hair was a fiery red. My hair was never red before. Wait, no, it had been that way all my life. What? And my stomach. I wasn't gutted, as I had assumed earlier. I was just... fatter?

     "That's okay, honey, because of your sedentary state the feeding tube had caused some extra weight gain. I'm sure once you're back on your feet you'll make it go away in no time." A lady, grey streaks of hair threatening to expose her real age. She rubbed my hand, it was reassuring. No. Why was she holding my hand?

    "Who are you?" A different voice poured from my throat.

    "Oh, baby..." Her face was wiped with distress, tears emerging as her body contemplated throwing itself onto me in a hug. She was restrained before it became a reality.