Inseparable
A FLASH of bright light in my eyes, a jumble of raised voices and hands pulling at my body—these
are my first memories. Then the pain slicing through my skull, through my body, sharp as a knife, and
bringing with it blessed darkness.
When my brain finally struggles up through the murky depths of consciousness, each sense
slowly reawakens. Everything seems disjointed and muddled, and the first thing I hear is the raspy
sound of my own breathing. The fingers of my right hand twitch; I feel warm skin gripping mine and
the whisper of a soft breath across my knuckles. A heavy weight presses on my chest, making it
difficult to breathe, and I want to push it away, but I can’t summon the strength to move. Slowly, I
crack my eyes open a slit. They feel swollen, and the steady throbbing deep behind them means I can
barely keep my eyelids open long enough to confirm that I am in a hospital room. There must be a
nightlight somewhere, because the weak glow is just enough to illuminate the faded curtain enclosing
my bed and the dark tousled hair of the man whose head rests by my hip on the mattress. Somewhere
beyond the curtain, someone is snoring, but my companion is silent, slumped forward in a chair,
clutching my hand as if, even in sleep, he can’t bear to let go. Good, I’m not alone . With that fleeting
thought, unconsciousness pulls me under again.
The next time I resurface, it is daylight. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face and see the
soft golden glow bathing the room from beneath my lashes. But it’s too much when I try to open my
eyes. The brightness stabs through my retinas. I roll my head on the pillow to escape, and explosions
of pain go off in my skull. I can’t hold back my whimper. There is a sudden movement next to me, and
then a gentle touch on my forehead, on my cheeks, wiping away the tears leaking out behind my closed
eyelids.
“You’re awake,” whispers a man’s hoarse voice. “Oh God, Adam, you’re awake.”
“Sun,” I croak.
“What? Oh, it’s too bright?” My companion moves about, hurriedly closing the blinds. When the
light dims, I cautiously open one eye, which gives me the chance to observe him unnoticed for a
moment. He is young, in his late twenties, and attractive with chin-length dark curly hair that looks
like it needs a good combing. When he turns and smiles, I’m struck by what a nice face he has, tired,
but open and friendly, and full of so much raw emotion it almost hurts to see it. His eyes are red and
swollen from crying, and even as I watch, fresh tears well in those brown velvet depths, spilling
down round cheeks into the neatly trimmed stubble of his beard. I want to comfort him, but the pain
radiating through my chest is driving out any other thoughts, driving out the air from my lungs.
“Can’t… breathe,” I gasp.
“Shh, calm down. I know it hurts. It’s your ribs, but the doctor says you have to try to breathe
deep. Just look at me.” I focus on his face, the sound of his gentle voice. A small gold stud glints in
each ear, and it’s so appropriate, because he reminds me of a gypsy I saw once. Somewhere . “That’s
it. Just breathe in and out….”
There is dried blood on the front of his grey sweater, but he doesn’t seem injured. Mine? I
struggle to recall how I got here. He must see the panic on my face because suddenly he asks, “What’s
wrong?”
“I don’t remember.” My voice sounds hoarse and unused. I close my eyes and think. Think, I tell
myself. But all there is, is blackness.
“The accident?”
“Anything! I don’t remember anything.”
He pales visibly. “Where the hell is that nurse?” he mutters, fumbling with the call button beside
the bed. He takes my hand. It’s the only part of my body that doesn’t hurt. “Do you know who I am?”
I shake my head, which makes the pain even worse. There is a brief moment where his face
crumples. He seems wounded more than anything
A FLASH of bright light in my eyes, a jumble of raised voices and hands pulling at my body—these
are my first memories. Then the pain slicing through my skull, through my body, sharp as a knife, and
bringing with it blessed darkness.
When my brain finally struggles up through the murky depths of consciousness, each sense
slowly reawakens. Everything seems disjointed and muddled, and the first thing I hear is the raspy
sound of my own breathing. The fingers of my right hand twitch; I feel warm skin gripping mine and
the whisper of a soft breath across my knuckles. A heavy weight presses on my chest, making it
difficult to breathe, and I want to push it away, but I can’t summon the strength to move. Slowly, I
crack my eyes open a slit. They feel swollen, and the steady throbbing deep behind them means I can
barely keep my eyelids open long enough to confirm that I am in a hospital room. There must be a
nightlight somewhere, because the weak glow is just enough to illuminate the faded curtain enclosing
my bed and the dark tousled hair of the man whose head rests by my hip on the mattress. Somewhere
beyond the curtain, someone is snoring, but my companion is silent, slumped forward in a chair,
clutching my hand as if, even in sleep, he can’t bear to let go. Good, I’m not alone . With that fleeting
thought, unconsciousness pulls me under again.
The next time I resurface, it is daylight. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face and see the
soft golden glow bathing the room from beneath my lashes. But it’s too much when I try to open my
eyes. The brightness stabs through my retinas. I roll my head on the pillow to escape, and explosions
of pain go off in my skull. I can’t hold back my whimper. There is a sudden movement next to me, and
then a gentle touch on my forehead, on my cheeks, wiping away the tears leaking out behind my closed
eyelids.
“You’re awake,” whispers a man’s hoarse voice. “Oh God, Adam, you’re awake.”
“Sun,” I croak.
“What? Oh, it’s too bright?” My companion moves about, hurriedly closing the blinds. When the
light dims, I cautiously open one eye, which gives me the chance to observe him unnoticed for a
moment. He is young, in his late twenties, and attractive with chin-length dark curly hair that looks
like it needs a good combing. When he turns and smiles, I’m struck by what a nice face he has, tired,
but open and friendly, and full of so much raw emotion it almost hurts to see it. His eyes are red and
swollen from crying, and even as I watch, fresh tears well in those brown velvet depths, spilling
down round cheeks into the neatly trimmed stubble of his beard. I want to comfort him, but the pain
radiating through my chest is driving out any other thoughts, driving out the air from my lungs.
“Can’t… breathe,” I gasp.
“Shh, calm down. I know it hurts. It’s your ribs, but the doctor says you have to try to breathe
deep. Just look at me.” I focus on his face, the sound of his gentle voice. A small gold stud glints in
each ear, and it’s so appropriate, because he reminds me of a gypsy I saw once. Somewhere . “That’s
it. Just breathe in and out….”
There is dried blood on the front of his grey sweater, but he doesn’t seem injured. Mine? I
struggle to recall how I got here. He must see the panic on my face because suddenly he asks, “What’s
wrong?”
“I don’t remember.” My voice sounds hoarse and unused. I close my eyes and think. Think, I tell
myself. But all there is, is blackness.
“The accident?”
“Anything! I don’t remember anything.”
He pales visibly. “Where the hell is that nurse?” he mutters, fumbling with the call button beside
the bed. He takes my hand. It’s the only part of my body that doesn’t hurt. “Do you know who I am?”
I shake my head, which makes the pain even worse. There is a brief moment where his face
crumples. He seems wounded more than anything
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