Forget me lots (Completed)

26. Dawn🌿

My time in Providence Hospital has been a tough ride, filled with twists and turns and moments of such terror I could only hide underneath my sheets and pray they'd be over soon.

There were nights I thought I'd suffocate, my chest burning from within. Gasping for air, I'd stumble to the window to find it locked with a heavy padlock. I'd press my burning cheeks against the cool glass and wish to be dead so it wouldn't hurt anymore.

The screams and nonsensical blabbers seeping from the walls and the corridors around my room were the worst part. So many broken souls, so much agony in their pleas.

There was a girlish voice I'd grown used to. A voice that came to me around three am and mourned its way until dawn. She cried and hiccuped her words of grief so badly I'd press my body against the wall and whisper it'd soon be over for us both. Oddly enough, her night terror kept me alert. When her sobs subsided, I knew we'd survived another night.

Today, as I'm taken to my psychiatrist's office for my daily session, I notice the door of the room beside mine—her room—opened. My gaze fixates on the bare mattress, and I realise I never knew her name or saw her face, and now I never would. I dig my nails deep into my palms, her absence tugging at my chest. Even if we hadn't met—I knew her. I was her.

The squeaking and gurgling of the wheelchair throughout the open floor plan muffles my sobs—silent tears roll down my cheeks and decorate all the grouted one-foot square tiles from the corridor to Elena's room.

She takes one look at me, nods and smiles kindly. She's probably seen way too many broken faces—ragged limbs and hopelessly heaving chests—one-too-many parades of shattered beings like me.

"How are things today, Dawn?" Her voice soothes the weariness in my bones.

"Less blurry..." My gaze locks on hers, and for once I meant what I said.

Back in my room, someone has opened the window, and I'm surprised by the sheer magnitude of such a tiny thing to my spirits. The padlock is gone, and once alone, I tiptoe my way towards it, wrapping my fingers on the ledge. I close my eyes and welcome the breeze.

"Dawn, you have a visitor." I turn and find the nurse by the door frame. Her name is Ava, and I like her a lot. She cares about her patients and calls them by their names. She came one night—when I was at my worst—and loosened the restraints. My writhing stopped, and it was a relief. I wish I had the courage to tell her I know what she did for me back then, but I think she realises how grateful I am, anyway.

"Okay, Ava. Thank you for everything." She smiles and I nod. She senses the depth of those last two words.

I know who my visitor is—my heart seems to flutter for him now. Mom told me she thought we were more than friends. She said I shouldn't worry about my temporary selective amnesia, it should vanish and things would make sense. But since the accident, I haven't been able to put a pin on our time together. I've tried so hard... He has mentioned nothing about our past, and I'm afraid to ask him about us.

He comes into the room, and my stomach backflips—it sinks a second after.

River's here, but he's come to say goodbye. He has to leave because his mom and dad had a "talk" about his heart condition and health treatment and decided it was best for him to travel to a clinic in Switzerland.

Did I know he was sick? Had he mentioned this personal matter to me? Were we that close?

Weakness takes the best of me, so I sit on the bed, rest my head against the backrest and pull the sheets all the way up my heaving chest. He watches my every move and closes the distance between us, wearing the saddest of expressions.

"I have to go away for a while, Dawn," he says, leaning over me. He squeezes my shoulders. "I don't want to, but I think it's best if I do."

Don't, please. I'll try harder. I'll be better. "Oh... Okay," I whisper instead.

He kisses me on the forehead, and he's crying a little, and part of me melts into him so he can carry me into his life and away from this grim, senseless moment.

He leaves an envelope by the nightstand, tells me to open it later after he is gone. His eyes look into mine, he's saying more words but somehow I can't hear them past the pounding in my chest.

With a last squeeze of my trembling hand, he turns and I close my eyes so I won't see him leaving. When I open them, River is gone. Two hours later, I can still see the echo of his body, standing by my side.

The morning comes with yet another visitor. A mourning dove—her feathery presence a sign of good luck. The time has come to open the envelope. I take several attempts to tear it, the shaking of my body making it impossible to hold it still.

I suck in a deep breath as things cascade onto my lap. Twenty print outs of us, I count them twice with a splitting grin, and at that moment—reaching through the fog and gray and cottony walls—I remember riding on a bike with him. Lying underneath the sun together as we snapped selfie after selfie and the sun whispering, "Hey, ferny girl. Hey, watery boy, bet your lungs are frying! Go get wet by the lake."

I remember the line of his body, the angle of him, the day he pulled me out of Elsie's lake angering the fish. I can feel the measure of him by my side, not leaving but staying.

And the boy in the photos whispers,"I think I love you, Dawn Gray Brooks. You are fucking hard work, but I'd walk through fire for you. I'd drown for you."