hand flat against the fabric surface that was not far from my face. For a moment it was a relief to be able to feel something so exterior to myself, and a source of hope that I was at last able to use my senses. I patted the satiny surface, trying to imagine its nature, and guessing. And rejecting the guess as impossible.
I began to cry out, virtually soundless screams, breathy, empty cries. I couldnât open my jaw. I pounded on the soft cloth surface with my fist. I hammered against a surface that made almost no sound, my blows muffled by the fabric and the feeling of a great weight beyond the barrier of wood and cloth.
I rolled myself to one side, and then to another, shifting my weight, pushing against the side of what I sensed to be an adult-sized crib, trying to reassure myself that surely I was in some ambulance, or in a medical facility where the attendants had momentarily left me in a chamber used for CAT scans, or perhaps I was in one of those grim fixtures, an iron lung.
I knew I wasnât blind. I was seeing what was really here. There was no light, an absence of even the hint of variation in the flat perfect darkness. Above the top of my head, below my feet, around me in all directions, was a box, a padded container.
I squirmed, then bunched my body, spasming, every muscle straining, I tried to call out, feeling my way around this prison. My nose was clogged with wadding. I dug the cotton free with my fingers. I forced my jaw apart, struggling, pulling out what felt like thread. With a strange absence of pain I pulled a needle from my gums, and another.
I tried to sit up and struck my forehead. I kicked, ripping at the cloth above me, clawing at the hard, slick-varnished surface before my face, suffocating as I fought the dark.
And then, at last, my lungs dragged in a breath of air. The right lung filled slowly, and I could feel the spongy airsack inflate and falter, sodden and disused. I coughed. I took in another breath and both lungs unfolded, breath growling in and out as I coughed, hacking, spitting, and half-swallowing cold sputum.
I gasped, my mind swimming, as I wondered if I had been stricken with pneumonia. But I was breathing. I cried out. My voice was a churn of phlegm and air, an animal bawl more than a yell. I took in another breath. I released it in a cry so loud it hurt my vocal chords and made my ears ring. Again and again I called, until my voice was ripped, strained soundless.
But they had heard me. They were hurrying to where I lay, reassuring smiles on their lips. Here they were, surely, the sounds of my fellows.
It was going to be all right. People are kind to the injured, and make provisions for them. I was misunderstanding the nature of my confinement. Light would break into my world, light and a caring face. I readied something to whisper, a message of gratitude that I could express with what was left of my voice.
I would apologize. How silly of me. What a mistake I had made. I would have to put it into words for them. I would laugh as I said it, laugh until my guardians were laughing too, at the outrageousness of it, the mad, hilarious blunder I had made.
I would tell them what I had thought had happened to me, and I would hear them repeat it to each other, to the others who ran up to help, to see what had happened, to join in my reunion with reassurance.
But there was no light. There were no voices, no smiles. What had sounded like hurrying steps was only the sound of my own heart, startled into contraction, stumbling into a pace that matched my feelings. The air tasted mineral and dank, and it was scented, too, with the essence of the box that held me, cabinetmakerâs wood stain and furniture wax flavoring each breath.
16
The cloth ripped, and my fingernails tore at the surface of the wood, dug into it, my blows and kicks altering the pressure of the air.
The shallow walls of the place were ruffled, a quality of wedding gown finery about the drapery around me and
I began to cry out, virtually soundless screams, breathy, empty cries. I couldnât open my jaw. I pounded on the soft cloth surface with my fist. I hammered against a surface that made almost no sound, my blows muffled by the fabric and the feeling of a great weight beyond the barrier of wood and cloth.
I rolled myself to one side, and then to another, shifting my weight, pushing against the side of what I sensed to be an adult-sized crib, trying to reassure myself that surely I was in some ambulance, or in a medical facility where the attendants had momentarily left me in a chamber used for CAT scans, or perhaps I was in one of those grim fixtures, an iron lung.
I knew I wasnât blind. I was seeing what was really here. There was no light, an absence of even the hint of variation in the flat perfect darkness. Above the top of my head, below my feet, around me in all directions, was a box, a padded container.
I squirmed, then bunched my body, spasming, every muscle straining, I tried to call out, feeling my way around this prison. My nose was clogged with wadding. I dug the cotton free with my fingers. I forced my jaw apart, struggling, pulling out what felt like thread. With a strange absence of pain I pulled a needle from my gums, and another.
I tried to sit up and struck my forehead. I kicked, ripping at the cloth above me, clawing at the hard, slick-varnished surface before my face, suffocating as I fought the dark.
And then, at last, my lungs dragged in a breath of air. The right lung filled slowly, and I could feel the spongy airsack inflate and falter, sodden and disused. I coughed. I took in another breath and both lungs unfolded, breath growling in and out as I coughed, hacking, spitting, and half-swallowing cold sputum.
I gasped, my mind swimming, as I wondered if I had been stricken with pneumonia. But I was breathing. I cried out. My voice was a churn of phlegm and air, an animal bawl more than a yell. I took in another breath. I released it in a cry so loud it hurt my vocal chords and made my ears ring. Again and again I called, until my voice was ripped, strained soundless.
But they had heard me. They were hurrying to where I lay, reassuring smiles on their lips. Here they were, surely, the sounds of my fellows.
It was going to be all right. People are kind to the injured, and make provisions for them. I was misunderstanding the nature of my confinement. Light would break into my world, light and a caring face. I readied something to whisper, a message of gratitude that I could express with what was left of my voice.
I would apologize. How silly of me. What a mistake I had made. I would have to put it into words for them. I would laugh as I said it, laugh until my guardians were laughing too, at the outrageousness of it, the mad, hilarious blunder I had made.
I would tell them what I had thought had happened to me, and I would hear them repeat it to each other, to the others who ran up to help, to see what had happened, to join in my reunion with reassurance.
But there was no light. There were no voices, no smiles. What had sounded like hurrying steps was only the sound of my own heart, startled into contraction, stumbling into a pace that matched my feelings. The air tasted mineral and dank, and it was scented, too, with the essence of the box that held me, cabinetmakerâs wood stain and furniture wax flavoring each breath.
16
The cloth ripped, and my fingernails tore at the surface of the wood, dug into it, my blows and kicks altering the pressure of the air.
The shallow walls of the place were ruffled, a quality of wedding gown finery about the drapery around me and
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