On Michael the Archangel’s Day

I woke up early this morning from a most disturbing dream to face a man lying in his bed a few feet from mine. He was gasping with his eyes closed as if he were having a nightmare. His hand lay on his stomach while a catheter was draining urine from his bladder. I discerned a tang of mildew in the air, mixed with bitter-sour musk of sweat that made me realise where I was, stretching my senses – an instant call that tightened my guts into a Gordian knot.

I was in between white sheets, leaning my weight to the left, serum running through the rubber leader into the veins of my right arm. My right ear was stuffed with cotton and gauze to block the flow of blood caused by a fracture and concussion from the accident. The mixture of blood and sweat in my ear vaporised like steam producing tiny humid drips rolling from the outer to the inner ear and down the tube causing me an annoying and continuous tickle. By midday the drips were getting drier and solid leaving crunchy sounds and echoes in their trail. I wanted to scratch my ear so hard but that would only make it worse. I tried to turn to a right angle position but my cracked ribs felt like thorns in my side. A current of pain sped up to my head as if my brain had collided with my skull. Even the striped sunlight passing through the window shutters felt like needles behind my eyes. The rest of the bruises scattered across my body felt so unimportant at this instant.

Last night I wished I could hold on until today. Today my wish came true but I had to put up with all the nagging from my parents and relatives.

‘We told you so; you should have been wearing a helmet; you shouldn’t ride a motorcycle because it’s like having the devil by your side.’ Tears started pricking behind my eyes at the sound of their words; I felt like an ant running away to avoid being stepped over by humans.

Most of all I was afraid of what my father would say. He’s capable of finding irregularities even if there aren’t any, dismissing the small print on a contract or using it in his favour; he is unpredictable in his own actions and manners. You never know if he’s going to advise you or strike you.

He walked in hastily, threw a bag of clothes on the chair and searched for the doctors. Although they assured him of my injuries’ stability and soonest recovery he seemed unconvinced. He repeatedly walked back and forth in front of my bed and in a sharp voice he said ‘Don’t ever think about leaving the house when you come home. And forget about riding a bike again.’

I shivered and grew pale. The sweat running down my spine became colder and my breath heavier as I looked at him with my mouth shut. His round eyes popped out like golf-balls, his irises and pupils half-lost, half-hidden behind his eyelids. He was waving his small hands with tension, pointing his index finger at me warningly.

‘I am seventeen, for God’s sake,’ I thought, but didn’t have the strength to debate with him. I knew I was going to be punished for this, whether it was my fault or not. I had better forget about living the life I had until that moment.

Grandma sat on a distant chair looking at me, her round green eyes piercing through mine though it seemed like her thoughts and stare were inconsistent with one another. It took her a while but she eventually waved her bony hand and said, ‘You have an angel by your side boy and he is protecting you day and night. You are lucky and you should never forget this day.’

‘Don’t worry granny, how could I,’ I thought.

In the afternoon my sister came by. She told me that after the accident had happened, Grandma rushed to make an offering to Archangel Michael for his name day and prayed I would soon recover my good health. I would expect nothing less, as much as I’ve scolded her religious beliefs in the past. But her faith is surely greater than mine so I hope her prayers were heard.

Nevertheless, Grandma kept staring at me critically in her silence, moving her head slightly up and down making her unspoken words ‘I told you so’ be heard. She made a few more comments later on but no one paid any attention, beside my father whose comments are obviously misled by Grandma’s.

A girl sneaked in the hospital from a back door late last night. It must have been about twelve o’clock. She followed the signs on the walls, tip-toed to my room and sat by my bed while the other patients were asleep. Apparently, no one noticed her, but I was glad to see a familiar face when tests, x-rays and doctors consumed most of my time.

I couldn’t believe she was here. I’d met her at school a few months ago before her graduation and hadn’t seen her since.

She held my hand and asked how I felt and how it happened. I couldn’t say much so she explained how the rumours about the accident reached her so soon and how she ran to the hospital to confirm. It seems that all of my friends had heard about it too and were waiting in the lobby for a long time. I was kind of happy to hear that; I had doubts lately, felt isolated and insecure but it appears you never know who cares about you, how your actions affect theirs until something bad happens and you are lucky enough to witness their concerns.

It didn’t take long before the nurse saw her and asked her to leave.

I tried to sleep afterwards but I couldn’t sleep much. The silence struggled with images popping up and rushing through my mind, flashes of cars, houses, trees, the road…blood.

They don’t mean to go away.

It’s becoming clearer with every blink of my eyes that this experience will have to serve a greater purpose in my life. I feel tired, old... shocked.

I used to believe I was free of conventions; nothing could get to me when I was riding my bike, smoking my cigarettes, having long hair, wearing earrings, following the flow and doing what my heart desired.

What do I know about being free, or unrestrained? These are concepts pretty much misunderstood. I am bound to the variability of my immediate and external environment more than I ever thought and experienced. This could have been worse than it is.

I have to be more careful.

I turn into a one way road, driving towards the right direction. The moist wind wrestles with my hair and flies off the dust from the ground and they mix, giving a sense of wet soil, signifying the coming rain. The trees bow low, their leaves shrivel and fall. Masses of grey clouds gather in the sky ready to burst with rage as they become greyer and purple. A Beetle - yellow or orange must be its colour- standing out in the late afternoon’s dim light, is passing by forcing me to move sideward. Upon my return to the centre of the street the bike’s left foot peg hits against the inside corner of a car door at the same time that the woman in the drivers seat pushes the door wide open to get out of her car.

The clouds are denser, whiter and closer now but only for a second or two. I hear a deep clunk inside my head and turn somersault to stand up. I run to straighten my bike that lies on the street. I hope there are no scratches on its new deep enamel blue colour. I struggle to lift it off the ground. Blood starts dripping out of my right ear to the ground forming dots and splashes. There’s an annoying buzz that keeps coming up. I can’t keep the bike up straight and it falls back on the street again but it doesn’t matter, it’s becoming too heavy to hold on to.

Is the wind still blowing? The struggle to breathe is terrible. My heartbeats run out of control. Have I been here before? Thick and thin dark lines extend from the trees’, houses’ and street’s edges towards me. They’re floating; curling in mid air, drawing uneven shapes and figures and I roll around until inside I feel torn and twisted as if I’m spinning on a Ferris-wheel. I shut my eyes but it doesn’t make a difference. Black and white dots quiver around me. I can barely walk towards the pavement so I fall on the cold coal tar road feeling its bitter dusty taste in my mouth and rock oil scent in my nostrils. And then I wake up.

They told me earlier today that a young girl witnessed the accident and called the neighbours for help. They called for an ambulance and the last thing I remember are faint images of red light flashing like a night club’s sign. I woke up in the hospital among strange figures that kept talking, walking, asking and moving me around from one room to another.

I wish I could forget last night but if I could it would mean nothing, as if it never happened. I already miss being out there.

I wonder if I’ve been given another chance…