Surreal Ecstasy Read online

  I groaned. I was in a hospital. As I sat there for several more useless moments, I briefly wondered who cared enough to send me here, or how anyone could have known what had happened to me.

  Sighing, I shifted my body a little, trying to get comfortable in that cardboard-like hospital bed. On television shows, when a victim wakes up in a hospital bed, a doctor or a loved one magically waltzes in the door and explains how the victim had gotten there.

  Well, this wasn't a TV show, and craning my neck to the right to peer through the window, there weren't any signs of hospital staff in the brightly-lit hallway. Also, I was a little short of loved ones at the moment, so I was hopeless as far as updates were concerned.

  On the other side of me, behind the plastic curtain, there was a light gray wall with a small window in the middle, leading to the outside world. I blinked a few times, defying the tears that threatened to come out. I realized I felt drowsy, and upon straightening my left arm I could see why. There was an IV needle wedged in the crook of it. I wondered what they were giving me. Cringing, I also wondered if they did a tox screen like they did on TV hospital shows. If so, they'd already discovered the alcohol and ecstasy.

  Sighing quietly, I realized there was nothing to do but sleep. The mystery fluid in the IV probably made sure of that. The tiniest glimmer of hope flickered in my mind, hoping I'd have a naughty dream consisting of chocolate truffles and male models. I didn't want to think about myself anymore.

  Unfortunately, I was apparently still feeling rebellious against myself.

  I would have five dreams during my stay at Virginia Mason Lynnwood Hospital, each with different consequences and reactions.

  The first one came to me in the form of a memory. Looking back, I supposed having this particular dream made sense, considering how deeply I'd been thinking about my ex and debating with myself about what the right thing was to do about him.

  Adim and I were in his beautiful 2-bedroom apartment in Edmonds, Washington. He was in the advertising business and did moderately well. He was charming and funny, and everyone liked him. He had Irish blood, and it showed, both in his hospitality and in his alcoholic habits. His hair was brown and always kept in a crew cut, making his large facial features seem even bigger on a ruddy complexion. His body was somewhat stocky with the slightest hint of a beer belly, standing at about 5'11" and usually dressed for the office—slacks, button-up shirt, and tie.

  Reliving this memory, I woke up to find him putting together what seemed to be an elaborate breakfast. A small, observant part of me realized this was about a year and a half ago, not too long after we started dating.

  I did a double-take when I saw what he was doing. I was tempted to go a step further and sneak outside his front door to check the apartment number. Adim's idea of making breakfast was telling the waiter he preferred his eggs over-medium.

  I laughed and surprised him from behind, circling his waist with my arms. I leaned against his back and closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of his cotton t-shirt-covered back next to my cheek.

  He turned around briefly to kiss my cheek. "Hey, babe. Are you ready to eat the best breakfast of your life?" He turned back around to give the stovetop his undivided attention.

  I let go of him and stood beside him to observe the action. I ached to reach over, turn the heat down, and flip the eggs over so they would cook evenly. "I am, but what are we really going to eat?"

  He let a little whoosh sound escape his lips as he shook his head. "That was pretty cold. You're going to regret saying that."

  I began to flinch, but saw that he was smiling. I decided to do my share and set up the table, so I took out the plates and silverware. "It does smell good," I said gently, hoping to take the bite out of my remark.

  Saying nothing, he disbursed the food to the plates and returned the pan to its original place, forgetting to turn the heat off. I opened my mouth to tell him to turn off his oven, but I closed my mouth promptly, afraid of what might happen if I corrected him, so I said nothing, figuring I'd sneak over to the oven later to turn it off without him noticing a thing.

  I retrieved a plastic cup from the dish rack and headed over to the fridge to pour myself some juice. Suddenly, I heard him sniffle very softly. I froze and looked at him without turning my head. I breathed quietly and considered the following things: He was awake early, in a good mood, and not quite acting like himself.

  And now came the sniffling. I unfroze and proceeded to pour my orange juice, sending out an invisible antenna to listen for anything else. Just when I was putting the juice back in the fridge, I heard it. Another sniffle.

  Suddenly afraid and hearing my heart pound in my ears, I put my cup on the table and headed toward the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, "I just gotta pee real quick."

  "Better hurry before all the food is gone!" was his singsong reply.

  Once inside the bedroom, I dashed over to his dresser and opened up the sock drawer as quietly as possible. I found what I was looking for right away—a black sock stuck in one corner by itself. I picked it up and stuck my arm inside the sock, my fingers soon closing around Adim's little folded-up plastic baggie. I pulled it out and held it up to my eyes for closer inspection. I had looked at it secretly last night, only to see how much of it was left. My fear grew to monstrous proportions as I saw that half of the coke was gone.

  He must have done it this morning as I slept, since we passed out together the night before. That was a hell of a lot of coke to do in one shot, especially so early in the morning.

  "What the fuck?"

  I jumped in the air and dropped the sock and baggie. I immediately started backing away.

  "I'm sorry, Adim, I just wanted to—"

  "To steal my stuff and get fucked up without asking me? What are you, a thief now?" His eyes got bigger every moment, a prominent vein showing on his forehead.

  "No… you don't understand. I could tell that you, uh, that you might have done a little coke in the morning and I was worried about you… and, uh—" I stumbled over something, continuing to back away, although I knew it was fruitless. There was nothing behind me except a corner.

  He sighed—a loud, angry, impatient sigh. "God, I don't know what to do with you anymore. I mean, I let you stay here so much it's like we're living together. I get up extra early to make you breakfast. I even take the time to supervise your friends and internet activity, just to protect you and keep you safe. I take care of you. I'm a good person, you know?" He put his hands together over his chest as if making a plea. "But then you do stupid shit like this. You know how expensive this stuff is, Morgan. Jesus, if you wanted some, why didn't you just ask? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  "I think I'll just go home now, Adim." I tried to walk past him to the door.

  Tried.

  He shoved me with both hands on my shoulders, and I landed on the floor with an angry slam. His hands felt more like two battering rams running into my body. Pain overcame my thought processes as I took a moment to recover from what felt like being hit by a small car. Suddenly, fury exploded in my brain when I realized that he'd hit me again, breaking his promise to me that he'd stop. My rage dominated all other emotions. Screaming, I got up and ran toward him, my arms outstretched, and at the last millisecond, knowing there was no way I'd be able to knock him over like he did to me, I kneed him between the legs.

  He howled and dropped to the floor, clutching himself, squeezing out a couple tears from his eyes. He shouted incoherently, the understandable words consisting of an abhorrent amount of obscenity. Knowing this was my chance, I grabbed my shoes and purse and ran. Not until I was outside his apartment did I realize that I'd forgotten my keys. I sighed, half of me grateful that I didn't close his door all the way and the other half crazed with wanting to get the hell out of there.

  I ran back in and stopped short. It had become incredibly hot in his apartment. Had he put the heater on earlier and I hadn't realized it? Was the stove still on? I didn't have time to think about t
hese insignificant things, so I let the matter drop quickly.

  Of course, of all places to leave my keys, they were in the bedroom. I ran there, trying to keep as far from him as possible.

  One glance in the bedroom told me Adim had gotten up off the floor. He was nowhere to be seen, which made my heart beat faster. Reminding myself why I came back, I found my keys on one of the nightstands. I snatched them up and took a step back toward the front door before I turned completely around.

  That was a mistake.

  I turned my torso to find a searing-hot frying pan being crushed on my right forearm. A different type of pain spread through my body then, pain from my arm that hurt so much, it almost immediately began to feel numb. I think I may have screamed, but all I know for sure is that the impact and heat were enough to knock me down again. I was dizzy and weak, one of my last conscious thoughts being that he'd won this round.

  He had climbed on top of me. "Why can't you just trust me, Morgan? Stop pissing me off!"

  Then he pulled his fist back, ready to strike.

  I woke up but did not open my eyes. I moaned inwardly and shifted around a bit, trying to get as comfortable as possible in that awful cardboard hospital bed.

  Pain shot through my eyes as tears began to form under my eyelids. That was a terribly vivid memory. I could still feel the pain of his hands on my chest, could remember the ugly bruising on my breastbone and my black eye. The burn on my arm, now a huge, discolored patch of skin, began to sting again, almost as if it knew I was recalling its birth. I looked like a freak when it showed, so I usually tried to wear long sleeves to cover it up.

  The pain I could manage—to an extent. What hurt most about my relationship with Adim is that I tried to help him, but he continually viewed me as the enemy. I'd tried everything I could that would help us get along better and keep us together. I did some of the drugs with him. I also tried to be his guiding light, promoting healthier things for his life and subtly suggesting some steps that could lead him to greater happiness. And I tried to become the dictator and force him to stop the drugs. None of these tactics had results that lasted more than a week. I tried so hard to understand that he was just scared—scared of living a life without his dependency. I told myself that when he hurt me—hurt me physically, that is—that he wasn't really mad at me. That he was just confused from all the emotions the drugs gave him. Then I'd call or come over, tell him how much I loved and understood him, and he'd tell me I was great and we'd start the sequence all over again.

  It was a cycle from hell.

  Was it wrong to feel hopeless when you were running out of answers? Was it wrong when, in the back of your mind, you knew it was a lost cause and that things would never change?

  But if you loved someone, aren't you supposed to love them unconditionally? At what point would it be right to say, "I obviously don't really love you, because I give up and want a life of my own"?

  This last thought troubled me, tortured me to imagine being happy and living without Adim. I laid there for quite some time on that hospital bed, eyes closed and hands fingering the paper-like blanket.

  I didn't admit this to anyone because… well, because I had no one to admit it to in the first place. But I also didn't want to think of good things happening to me because I had stopped believing long ago that they were possible, or that I deserved them.

  Despite all that, however, I still believed in true love, and I knew exactly what type of man I wanted. It began by watching fairy-tale movies as a girl and having crushes on sitcom actors. It developed as I dated in high school, learning the complexities of romantic relationships. Every time a relationship failed, I added onto my mental list the traits my ideal man would have.

  I wanted someone who loved me, someone who not only said the words to me constantly, but would demonstrate it to me everyday, not just with sexual expression, but in the way he'd treat me. I wanted a person who would look at me like I was one of the Seven Wonders of the World; a person I would be everything to. I would be his inspiration, and he would be mine. My feelings would be more important to him than anyone else's. When I cry, he wouldn't shake his head and walk away because he couldn't handle my emotions. Seeing me cry would make him want to run to me faster. He would support me—literally help me stand, if he had to—and ask me in the gentlest manner if I was okay, and what he could do to fix it.

  And if he couldn't fix it, he would just hold me and let me cry. He wouldn't be afraid if I wept or screamed or complained. He would want me to express my every thought and emotion because he'd want to know everything about me. He would know me better than anyone. He'd know my most sinful, deadly, sexy secrets, but instead of saying, "Don't worry, I still love you," he would proclaim, "I love you even more now, because all these things you've experienced in your past has made you what you are today."

  He wouldn't be addicted to alcohol, money, drugs, women, video games, or his ego. The simplest things in the universe would thrill him, and not because he himself was simple. He would be a highly intelligent man, one who could understand complex theories without batting an eye, someone who could be at the brunt end of a woman's wrath but instead of hitting her back, would ever practice patience and still be kind, continually evolving and becoming a better person because of it. No, the beauty of the world would thrill him because he would be enlightened. He would be like no other human on this planet could possibly be.

  And he would love me.

  I dared to open my eyes for a moment to make sure no one had sneaked in my room and was standing there, looking at me. The room, sadly, remained drab and empty. I closed my eyes again and continued my train of thought, taking a breath to relax myself. What kind of a person would he be? How would he behave himself around other people?

  For a reason I did not know, I felt myself smile thinking of this nonexistent person, perhaps because I used Dess' husband for inspiration, remembering how he interacted with people, and how respectful and sweet he was. My ideal man would be the most respectful person you could ever hope to meet, both because he was raised to be that way and because he honestly believed that was the only way to treat people. People would take one look at him and know he was their friend, that he would go to extremes to help them through any misery, and that they could depend on him for a smile or a kind word.

  He would have everything going for him—he would be gorgeous, intelligent, well read, and knowledgeable enough about politics to discuss it at length with anyone, regardless of their affiliation, and they would never feel offended. He would also be funny—his humor would have no victims, and it would make you curl up laughing on the floor until your sides hurt. He would also make a corny joke now and then, but it would be deliberate, just to watch his friends squirm and wonder if they should laugh or scold him for making such a bad joke. He would know enough about women to make him a considerate, powerful lover, but not too much where one would wonder if he bedded hundreds of women.

  Yes, he would have everything a woman could possibly want and, on top of it all, he wouldn't be the least bit conceited about it. Oh, he would throw a joke around now and again, perhaps agreeing when I'd tell him how perfect he was—but he just wouldn't think of himself that way. He would not be insecure, and didn't need the ego boosts.

  He would not be chauvinistic; he would respect women and teach all boys to do the same. He would never, in the heat of an argument, tell me that I was a terrible person or that he would never marry a person like me. He would never take cheap shots at me—verbally. Physically, the thought of hurting me would be a strange, foreign notion. It would make him feel pain to know that he caused it for me.

  He would care about fellow humans, animals, and the environment, but not to comical proportions. He would be one of the strongest men I knew, but you'd never know it because he wouldn't advertise it; he wouldn't need to. He would not be hot-headed and suddenly get into a fight because the waiter at the diner looked at him funny. He would be mature and know that if someone offended
him, it would be that person's problem and not his. But if hell did freeze over and he did get in a fight, he'd knock the other guy flat in mere seconds because he was that strong, that powerful, and driven by the kind of energy that only the most enlightened souls can have.

  He would be perfect in every way. And I would love him so, so much.

  I opened my eyes and studied that boring wall again. I heard a faraway machine beep, followed with the sounds of at least a few pairs of feet shuffling about.

  Well, at least now I knew that there was a living hospital staff here, and that I wasn't stuck in some zombie wasteland.

  I sat up slowly and studied my hospital room with less discrimination than before. A TV was bolted in the upper corner near the door, and turning to my right, I saw a little table next to my cardboard bed. On the table were the TV remote, a telephone, a tan plastic pitcher, and tan plastic cup.

  I reached over to pour some water in the cup. As I took a sip, I could feel the cool water soothe its way down my body, relaxing and comforting me.

  Somehow, I felt alive. The very thought of this man, the possibility of his very existence, brought me to a happier, more secure place in my heart. I believed he was out there, somewhere on this earth. I had to believe, because if he didn't exist, then there would be nothing to look forward to, no hope to cling to that would bring me from a world of pain to a world of bliss.

  And so I curled up on my cardboard bed, slightly grinning, paper blanket pulled up to my chin like a child, and rested almost peacefully.

  * * *

  My second dream came to me in the form of a fantasy, starring a familiar face.

  I was in a meadow, sitting on the grass. A soft blanket was thrown over what looked like a manhole cover, and a picnic basket sat tranquilly on one corner of the blanket.

  I heard grass-steps behind me and turned around to see a man approaching. The sun was shining behind him, making it difficult, if not impossible, to see his face. Despite that, however, I knew who he was. He was the only constant in my life, sticking by my side for as long as I could remember.