Larsen?

181. With traction unavailable, in total darkness I realize the only thing between my living consciousness and the eternal void is my will. I commit to the effort, asking likewise from my atrophied body, doubtful mind unwavering spirit. I am slipping deeper by the minute into a black hole of nothingness. Far above I see a pinpoint of light. I appears glimmering like a star in a galaxy ten thousand light years away and I recognize it as my last best hope. I move towards it with all the inertia I can weightlessly create. I can feel my lungs cry for a leaner mixture as fuel drains. I have one shot at this docking or it's over. I use a primal scream as bombastic propulsion commanding every muscle cell to aid and abet. I rise slowly at first, then, with proof of theory established, give it one…..last…. push upward, away from the tractor-beam pull of everlasting hopelesness. And open my eyes. In front of a blinding lamp creating a halo effect around her head stands Julie. She looks surprised to see me and somewhat bemused at the relative clumsiness of my entrance. I am frantically trying to access the situation. Discarding my first though as this being heaven, I scan the room, quickly deciding that I am in a hospital bed and Julie is visiting. There are flowers on the table and I hear the familiar ping of life-support data being displayed on a monitor behind my aching head. I then preform a damage assessment and feel, besides the dull ache at the back of my head, numbness in my right arm and an unresponsive right shoulder. Julie senses my questioning and moves closer to announce, "You were shot from behind, three hits, head, shoulder and arm, close range, hollow point. The staff induced a coma to speed the quality of recovery. You have been out for almost eight months." I can see from her expression that she fears the update has been too much, too soon. I look to the door and see two people enter the small but friendly room, one is a doctor wasting no time in checking vitals and the other Drysdale who might have been on security just outside the door. I think about standing an eight-month watch and close my eyes with gratitude and fatigue. Eight fucking months? I can hear the doctor call for the specialist as I open my eyes for the second time. I see Julie and Drysdale sanding bedside. A ocean of joy washes over me as I try to fit a few pieces of the puzzle together. Drysdale moves in to squeeze my arm and we visually connect in an affirming moment of fellowship. "Firecracker?" They look at each other answering the question non-verbally. "TOM scrubbed it after the, uh, ambush." Julie finally offers. The specialist arrives and immediately dismisses my lifeline to information and, hence reality. I am left with a thousand questions and a runaway imagination. "I need you to relax Mr. Larsen, please." Hearing the beeps from the EKG dramatically increase in frequency with the bad news, I agree and close my eyes while drawing a deep breath to allow the combination to slow my alarmed basal response. Larsen?