wormhole [coma;oneshot]
Feb 22, 2014 17:31:05 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Feb 22, 2014 17:31:05 GMT -5
galaxy rose-
invisible to all
the mind becomes a wall
all of history deleted
with one stroke
the mind becomes a wall
all of history deleted
with one stroke
WE SIT IN SILENCE, hands dripping droplets of pure rubies as the needle weaves its way in and out of our fabric, pricking our fingertips. We know it's alright, for wounds heal over time and as our lifeforce soaks deep into our work there is the understanding that we won't be forgotten, that we live on in our creations. We almost smile at the fact, yet what truly causes our mouths to turn upwards is the twinkling of iridescent gems in the void. These are our creations, the purl necklaces laid upon the throat of creation. It is beautiful, it is glorious, it is it is it is.
And then there is no more as the threads slip out of my hands and I reach for it, run for it there is no we anymore where have we gone oh no oh no it's just me myself and I spinning at the edge of the wilderness without an anchor to grab onto. Where is the woman with hair as bright as fire and eyes the same as my own? Did I know her once? There's a throbbing in my head it grows louder and louder and I clutch at it with holy fingers that streak red down my hair. The glimmering has turned into a deadly glare and I can feel the heat melting my skin and I go tumbling down down down down into the abyss down deeper into the void that the stars have yet to discover and never will and a scream rips out of my throat, echoing against walls unseen.
Gasp.
Sitting up straight beads of sweat dripping down my forehead hands clutching at the bedsheets you're alright you're alright you didn't fall you're here and safe and everything is alright. Calm. Be calm. Calmer. There's hair in my face, whose hair? Mine. It's a burning red, a fire red, a burnt red and as I stare at in wonder I realize that I don't know who I am. My name, my name my name what is my name I can feel panic settling deep into the pit of my stomach as the only thing I can recall is Galaxy and Rose. But that's not right no no there's something else I don't recall but I don't know what it is.
Galaxy Rose?
Galaxy ___ Rose?
Galaxy Rose-.
I don't know. The only thing I remember is this bed with the metal bars and the scratchy blankets. I don't know where I am I don't know what District I'm in or what year it is or why I feel so much older yet my mind knows I'm not this old. How old am I? Movement on my left halts my thought processes as I look and stare in confusion at the man slumped next to my bed, head hung over, shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm of deep sleep.
He has my ember hair color. He has my freckled complexion. I can tell even in this candlelight. But I don't know who he is. Why is he even here? Why am I even here? There's too much going on everything's moving too fast and I haven't even moved at all wait give me a minute to catch up it's not fair I was never good at gym class and now I have to run a marathon it's too fast too fast too fast for me and I can feel everything closing in and it all fades away as I go thump back against the pillow and my consciousness turns back to the void.
There are no stars here.
this is the first day of my life.
swear i was born right in the doorway.
i went out in the rain
suddenly everything changed.
they're spreading blankets on the beach.
swear i was born right in the doorway.
i went out in the rain
suddenly everything changed.
they're spreading blankets on the beach.
The doctor says that I have amnesia, and I can't prove him wrong. I mean, I only know that my name is Galaxy. When I told him my name was Galaxy Rose- the man who had been sitting next to me throughout the night had to leave the room. I'm assuming that means my name is not Galaxy Rose-. I feel like a Galaxy Rose- though. Something's screaming at me telling me that the name is important so that's gotta be mine, right? Maybe. I don't know.
He says that I fell off the observatory tower. I can't remember what happened that night, I can't remember anything, really. There are some pros though - I remember the first time I took a breath, the first time I took my first steps, the first time I heard my voice and felt the metal bars of my bed and experienced my first hug from someone who a man I must have met but can't remember for the life of me. I felt bad about freaking out about it, but I don't- Ugh.
I don't know why I'm not allowed to leave the hospital yet. I mean, I'm awake, I can walk around and eat solid foods I don't see any reason to keep me cooped up here in this ward with 6 patients stuck in a perpetual sleep
One thing's for sure though - I can't go back to the scene of the crime. They've knocked down the tower already, making room for medicine and biology buildings instead. At least, that's what the man - no, not just a man he's someone important I wish he'd tell me who he was - told me after his sobs had subsided. I don't know whether I should be happy about that or not. It's just a building, right? It was just the place where I fell, it was nothing important, right?
The look in his eyes told me otherwise.
My days are spent staring out the window, counting as the hours pass and I am yet to have permission to leave the room. I'm in Six now, I know that much, I know that the doctor is a kind man and that the other man always comes in around six o'clock with a styrofoam container of takeout food that he's never allowed to give me. I tell him to eat it - he looked gaunt the first time I saw him; I don't think he's gained back any weight since then. I do wish I could eat it though, it smells heavenly and the food here really isn't edible.
One day he came in with charts of paper that he stuck under my nightstand when the doctor wasn't looking. I haven't peered at them yet - there's no opportunity to do so and I don't want it to get taken away like I've done something bad.
Sometimes I sit with the sleepers instead, because they don't have anyone who sits next to them and I feel bad about that. I don't know why I do, it's not like they know what's happening and I doubt that my presence will allay any nightmares but I do it anyway. I can't even remember what happened to me when I was down and out. Just flickers of darkness, a warm laugh, flaming red hair and twinkling. Maybe they're different though - I forgot who told me, but I know that just because you experience the same thing doesn't mean that you experience it in the same way.
I always start with BLOOM, Napoleon. I don't know why. His name though, it's really really familiar and I feel that maybe if I sit with him long enough I'll go eureka and all of my problems will be solved. I mean I know that's not going to happen but...
SEPULVADA, Douglas is the patient I end with (I go alphabetically after Napoleon. I always end up apologizing to ALAN, Naya Jensen but I doubt she can even hear me so why am I even doing this) and then I decide that it's probably a good idea to be social and I try to find the other "awake" patients. Most of the time I fail, mainly because I don't know my way around this building and I really don't want to get lost so I end up just not looking and I go back to bed for a few hours.
I've learned how to sew and knit though; it's kinda weird, but the stitching reminds me of something and whenever I accidentally poke my fingers I almost feel... I don't know, something. I've sewn a large amount of stuffed animals - the fire-haired man has one I made of him. I think he liked it - and a ridiculous number of scarves. I don't know if I was allowed to use all the yarn placed near the sofa in the lounge. I did it anyway though, sorry. It's replaced weekly though so I see no problem in it; I even made scarves for all the patients if they want it. I mean I didn't give them out because that would be weird, to have a stranger give you a scarf but if they want one they can take one.
It's boring here. I'm bored. I should leave. I can leave, right? Yes? No? I'm missing too much, I should just walk out of here and never return except I don't know where to go and the man with the red hair just looks at me sadly every time he walks in and sees me staring out the window and I hate it. I know that I'm too old to be treated like this, I know that I should be out and about doing my own thing and getting a job like a normal person but clearly I'm stuck in this ward until I'm deemed sane or something. Maybe I'm actually insane. Maybe they actually want to keep me away from society. Hah.
I want to look at the papers he slipped under my nightstand. I'll find a way to do it when the doctor's on lunch break or something. For know I embroider constellations that for some inexplicable reason I know the names of into canvas.
~~~
I've been here too long I need to get out I need to do something this is tearing me apart I either feel far too much or not enough at all. The nurses seem increasingly worried about me, the man with the red hair hardly even comes anymore. He keeps expecting me to say something and I don't fucking know, I don't know I don't know I'm sorry I don't know all I know is that I'm Galaxy Rose- and I know all of the constellations in the sky and how to knit and embroider and sew and lose my mind from being stir-crazy.
~~~
Fuck it, I'm looking at those papers.
It's the dead of night and here I am, in the lounge with a flashlight in hand and the papers stuffed under my shirt. The sofa's too scratchy, the papers are scratching my stomach and I sigh in relief as I pull them out, laying them out across the coffee-table. Slowly I unfold them, my mind telling me that these can't mean anything, the man was just being nice he can't help that much so don't be disappointed when nothing happens.
Something happens though, something big happens as my flashlight shines on two identical constellation charts. I know these. I know what these are and I'm elated because for some reason I can remember my hand tracing across the page, measuring with rulers at 3:30 in the morning, cups of coffee strewn across the floor as carefully, oh so carefully I trace out the diagram. This is mine, this is mine this is mine I remember I remember - but why are there two of them?
There are notes attached, I read them hungrily. And I understand these too, and I remember writing these down with a hard candy in my mouth. But again - why are there two copies?
My eyes widen as I see the signatures at the bottom, and I finally know my name.
Galaxy Clements, 5/24/64
Amelia Rose, 1/7/50
Amelia Rose, 1/7/50
I'm not Rose, that's someone else.
Who it is, I have no idea.
But I know my name.
I know it.
I do.
But Rose.
Rose is a part of me now, just as much as Clements is.
I don't know why, I can't explain it, but when you've called yourself something after losing every part of you - well you can't just toss it aside. Galaxy Rose- no - Galaxy Rose-Clements. That's me. That's who I am.
Yeah.
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