“Vernon” another nurse begins as she leans against the door frame. I roll my eyes, not to much but enough to make it noticeable.

“You can’t play tricks on us, you know this can be-”

“I know, I know, dangerous, life threatening, yeah yeah” I interrupt her, my voice echoing the irritation inside me. She gestures for the two shocked nurses to exit, before picking up my heart monitor from the ground. I watch her from the corner of my eye while I tug on a wavy strand of hair that falls just above my eyebrows.

“Vernon” she repeats my name to get my attention. I turn my head to her, hopefully she can read the displeasure I feel by my expression. Without any words I lift my hand to hers and she clamps the pulse monitor over my index finger. I sigh as the thin green line on the screen becomes active again.

“How are you feeling?” she asks me, pushing my legs to the side and taking a seat on my bed.

“I’m fine Janiss” I tell her wiggling my toes a bit to gain more feeling back.

Janiss, although not her real name, that’s how I know her. She’s always been the nurse to take care of me since I was young. Everytime I’m here, which is most of the time, my father requests her to look after me. She’s an older lady, well, to me she is. Her hair is long and black, occasionally showing flicks of grey by the roots. She knows my routine, that I gain my senses back slowly, and how whenever I wake up I feel completely fine. She’s a kind woman, consistently treating me like her own son, and acting like the mother I no longer have.

“Are you sure?” she asks me the way she does every time. I nod, sighing once again.

I may feel fine, that doesn’t mean I am fine. My heart will ache soon enough, give it a week or so. I, for the past year have been falling under more frequently. For the last eight months I haven’t even gotten the chance to leave this hell hole. Whenever I get to the point of patient discharge, I slip under once again. In all honesty, I think the doctors have given up hope, much like I have, at least that’s how it feels. Not one person is sure of what’s wrong with me. And if I’m honest, I don’t want them trying to find out anymore. I’m sick and tired of being poked and prodded with needles, being scanned and x-rayed, and getting physical examinations every damn week. It’s been eight years since the consistent comas started. I was ten at the time, walking home from school with my best friend, things were normal, no aches or pains. I was almost home when I felt a sharp stabbing pain in the left side of my chest. I remember my vision hazing over and turning into a blurry smudge. I don’t remember hitting the sidewalk, but I do remember looking up at my worried friend and the bright sky, but that’s all.

After that first slip, I’ve gone under about nine times. That is until this past year where I’ve nearly tripled the total.

“Your vitals look good Vernon” Janiss tells me as she jots down numbers from the monitor to a busy piece of paper. “Don’t they always?” I retort. She laughs as if I was joking, standing from the bed. I reach down sliding off the pulse scanner from my finger tip. The machine begins beeping as Janiss heads for the door. She turns on her heels to face me, a scowl stretched across her face. I smile meekly. She sighs, shutting the aggravating beeps of the machine off. She shakes her head at me before heading back for the door. “Oh Vernon” she says in that typical motherly sounding voice she often tends to use on me. My eyes widen at her scolding tone. “When will you learn” she says more as a statement than a question. Janiss exits the room, closing the door on her way out and leaving me to the hushed room alone.

I lean back in my bed, taking a look out my room’s window at a merely unsettling view of the hospital’s grey and white roof tops along with large vacant fields of dying grass.

I reach into my small light wooden side table, taking out a black journal and a blue ballpoint pen.

I sigh, flipping the book open to the first blank page. I quickly write the date, which I read from the sheets Janiss was holding. I place the pen point to the page. I began writing my comatosed experiences at the start of the frequent comas. I figured I should write out my dreams considering the times I’m under consist of more happiness than the reality I’m in when awake. I live a free life when I’m out, whereas when I’m awake, I live in this pit of despair called a hospital, just watching the hands on the clock tick forward, and each valuable second of my life disappear into a troublesome past. I take the only joy I can in reliving my experiences through my writing. As my mother wrote to me on the first page of the first ever journal I received, the very one she gifted me when I turned five years old, “life is life, but life is nothing to someone unless they live”. She was nothing but right, life is nothing to me, I may be lucky to be alive, but life means absolutely nothing to me when I don’t have the opportunity to live. I’m usually cooped up in this small washed out green room all alone. Occasionally I’m given the chance to get up and go for a walk around the floor or if a good day, down to the patient courtyard, but that hasn’t happened in the last six months. They tell me my body, more so my heart, is too weak to handle the physical activity. By now, I’m not even sure I can get up without assistance. I lift my hand placing it over my shirt, running my fingertips over the ridges of my ribcage.

Visits from friends and family don’t happen too often. My friends don’t stop by with all their classes and homework, besides, who really wants to spend a few hours in a hospital room with a person who can’t even get out of bed? They all do make an effort to keep contact with me, and that’s more than I can ask for from them. As for my father and sister, they stop by as often as they can. But my dad is usually working double shifts at the market to make up the money to afford simple things like food. My sister, at 11 years old can’t come by on her own, hospital rules for anybody under sixteen years of age. I was always told when I was growing up that I’d make my family proud, and yet here I am, a useless lump of despair sitting helplessly in a bed, day in and day out.

Dream 1003. I write in large print along the top line. Looking up at the small black circle of a clock on the wall ahead of me, I remember back into my dream I had just woken from. My careless cursive fills the page.

Tick, Tick.

My eyes open slowly, squinting at the bright sunlight pouring in throw light blue curtains hanging over a small window to my left. I gaze over at the small alarm clock beside me, turning a dial on it’s back, I shut the faint ticking sound off as well as the clock's hands. Subconsciously I slide my hand up from my hip to my chest. A near modest smile tugs on my lips as I feel the soft thump of my heart. My fingers curl trapping a handful of my shirt in my palm. The slightest of laughs escapes me, a larger smile growing over my face. I look around the room, it’s warm orange-yellow walls and soft blue accents give off a homey feeling. I am home. The familiar scent of fresh baked muffins fills my senses. Throwing off my covers and simultaneously swinging my legs over the edge of the bed I stand up. Nearly dragging my blanket with me, I walk up to the window. It’s bottom edge level with my belly button. I slide one side of the curtains over, and prop the glass door open. Taking in a deep breath, I sigh, my hands gripping the ledge. I close my eyes, listening to the soft hum of voices on the street below, the quiet rush of cars, even the small chirps of a bird. When I open my eyes, a small blue bird stands on a tree branch only a few feet from my window. “Good to see you again” I speak to the bird, before it flies away.

“Vernon! Hun!” a woman’s voice calls up from the house’s lowest level to me. I smile, quickly skipping from my room, I prance my way to the staircase almost slipping on the hardwood in my socks. Swiftly I hop step by step down to the main floor and lowest level of the home. Without a word, I run, throwing my arms around the woman who called to me, leaning my head down onto her shoulder. She holds me back, running a hand up and down my back. “Welcome home hun” she says warmly as I pull away from the embrace. I smile at her, and she smiles at me. Her long dark strawberry blonde hair is pulled up into a bun and is held back by a dark blue cloth in replacement of a bandana. “I made muffins” she informs me, although I’m well aware from the delicious scent in the air. She taps my check twice with the tips of her fingers before walking back to the kitchen. I follow her, taking a seat in a small wooden dining room chair. She hands me a muffin, cut perfectly in half and buttered just how I like it. “Thank you mum” I respond.

My mother always welcomed me home with baked goods. Somehow she always knew when I would return, even when I never have a clue.

She sits in the seat angular from me. I begin eating, as does she. “I miss you hun” she tells me, like she does each time I arrive home. I pause, placing the muffin back down onto it’s white china.

“You know I miss you too mum” I reply with a smile. She smiles back at me, dusting her fingers of the crumbs. Her smile remains. It’s one of the very features I can never forget about her. It curls up the way a smile should and makes me feel more at home then anything else. “Come on Vernon, eat up and wash up, we’re meeting with your grandparents tonight” my mother stands from the table taking her own plate and mine as I pick up the half eaten muffin off it. Hurriedly I finish, nearly shoving the baked good down my throat.

“I’ll hurry mum” I say running my way back up the stairs. “Okay hun” she responds, although I only faintly hear her. I head to the washroom. I eye myself in the mirror. Leaning over the counter, I eye my slight sun kissed skin and moist pink lips. I place both my hands to my stomach before running one over my cheek. I smile at the healthy boy looking back at me. I spin on my heels, turning on the shower. Quickly I strip down, out of my clothing. Turning back to the counter to grab a washcloth a large red line catches my attention in the mirror. I drop my shoulders as I look at my bust in the mirror. Two large faded red scars stretching over the left side of my chest stare back at me. Ah yes, a great reminder to what life awaits me. I sigh, grabbing the washcloth and shaking the thought off.

Quickly I wash up, and get dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a fitted white dress shirt. I head back to my room, sitting on the edge of my bed, I look out the window as late afternoon settles over the city. “Hun!” My mother yells for me to head down. I walk down the stares and join her in the house’s front foyer. “Well come on silly, get your shoes on, we can’t keep your grandparent waiting”

I scoff with a smile at my mom’s words, sliding my black converse on. “I’m sure your grandparents will be more than happy to see you, they haven’t in a very long time” my mom explains, although I already know. I haven’t seen my grandparents since I was six. No matter how often I’ve been home I’ve never stayed long enough to get the chance to see them. I talked over the phone to my grandfather once, but that was still a few years back. My mother heads out the door, and to her small grey-black car. “Hurry up slowpoke, you’re 18 years old, do I really have to still baby you” she calls into me as she takes a seat in the car. I sigh, rolling my eyes and grabbing a thin grey jacket off it’s hanger, throwing it over my forearm as I exit the home.

“No mother” I finally respond, taking my seat next to her in the passenger's seat. My mother begins driving, and in a few minutes we’re among large crowds of people and the hustle of New York City life. I watch out my window. People all wander, some in a hurry while others appear as if purposeless. I watch as people try desperately to sell little nicknacks and papers to the people who try desperately to ignore them. I look up at what looks like never ending buildings. The dark red bricks of some, all covered in bright coloured spray paint, and the shiny glass of others.

Soon the car takes a sharp turn down a dark street illuminated by the slightest amount of sun that can still reach it’s way around the tall high rises. “Mum” I begin “where are we going?” I question. My breathing becoming heavier with each inch we drive down the dark road. “Gramma and Grampa live only just around the corner” I know she answers, although all I hear is a high pitched ring in my ears. I squint my eyes shut, and pinch my forehead with one hand while the other grips the car door handle tightly. “Hun?” I hear my mother’s worried voice over the loud screams in my ears.

Light. Black. A loud scream. “Maria! Maria!” is all I hear. “Sofia” I hear. “Vernon!” I know he shakes my arm, but I feel nothing. “Vernon!” he screams. I breath in. I breathe out. “Help!” he screams. “Maria” his voice softens. “Vernon!” he screams once again. Silence.

“Vernon!” her voice yells at me. My eyes open, the vehicle is stopped, we’re in a driveway. “Hun? Are you okay?” I look over at my mother. She looks at me, her eyes a worried gaze and her hand rests on my arm. “Yeah” I nod, shaking my head slightly. “Are you sure?” she asks me. “Yes” I say opening the door and getting out. “Gramma and Grampa are waiting for us mum” I say turning to face her who still looks at me with a worried expression. She runs up to me and we both head for the front door.

The memory. I remember. I remember that day.