Colored Hearts

"So, this is where you go when you're not around." She says looking nowhere near me, inching toward the crumbling ruins of an ancient, wooden desk and a rickety old chair resting not far from it in the corner. She leap frogs effortlessly over the chair landing perfectly seated then proceeds to pull open the middle drawer, reaching inside it fearlessly. "Yeah, it's pretty nice here." She says without looking away from the drawer and continues rummaging through it for something.

I can't imagine what.

"This desk is cute. I see how this place is your ideal form of escape." Again, she speaks across to me without looking.

This room is nothing but darkness. The only light source emanates from within my eyes, wherever I happen to be looking. The walls are moldy, rotten-green and brown-plaster drywall sheets covered in deep scratches with holes and no entirely obvious way to travel beyond them. The room is so small that I think I can hear her pulse throbbing.

There's no possible way it could be mine.

After a moment of digging shoulder deep she pulls a paper heart, a red crayon, and a pink crayon from the desk drawer and begins coloring.

"But why do I keep thinking about dying?" She asks carefully without looking away from the desk.

"Because I'm really the one thinking about dying." I say.

"Oh." She quips with the unmistakable tone of confirming suspicions.

For the past 3 weeks I've fought using every ounce of will power to maintain this projected status here within this tiny astral hideaway. I was absolutely certain I'd be rid of my body by now, and I'm beginning to wonder if someone else is using it.

But then again I can't suppose anyone would use my body for anything.

"Don't worry too much about me, I'll be alright." I lie in vain and begin calmly stuffing my hands down into the astral projection pockets of my astral projection pants as deeply as infinity will allow. I peer with an absent mind through the cracks and eroded spot patterns etched sporadically across the entire surface of the dirt and limestone floor like I'm looking through glass. "HEY! Light!" She demands.

I fix my eyes across the center of the paper heart for her. I don't remember lacking existence before ever being born, but lately I've been pretending that particular void is something I can look forward with the prospect of returning to, should fate see fit by allowing the inevitable to happen.

Any minute now.

You spend your entire life looking for all the time you can never seem to find enough of while losing what little you already have then one day, without so much as a blink or whisper, it decides to find you first with no possibility of escape. I'm still wondering how after being separated from my body for this extensive period I can still remain in this astral realm within the confines of this self-constructed, makeshift limbo.

"You know you were moments away from dying a couple weeks ago, right?" She knows exactly what I'm thinking about yet still refuses to look at me.

All she wants to do is color hearts.

"They were about to pull the plug on your body, but I came through last second and signed myself as next of kin. I hope you don't mind." She says as cool as possible without missing a beat in her coloring endeavor.

My jaw slacks and clenches almost simultaneously in disbelief and disappointment, but I can't say I'm entirely shocked. I should have been well beyond dead by now with no family, no friends--nobody to keep me alive. I knew something was amiss but I'd have never guessed that she was the reason behind this seemingly unexplained slipping time of passage.

I struggle to respond in any way at all.

I never want to go back.

I'm tired of feeling incomplete.

That world is just as empty as I am. Inside-out and hollow.

Without looking she cries, "I'm disappointed too, you know! So what you're saying is you give up? You're going to stay here until your body expires without putting any kind of resistance up whatsoever? You only live once. It's twice we don't exist. The odds are already against us from day one, and this is why we press forward; this is why you need to keep yourself going; to even the odds, if only just a little. You want to give up on your only life because you think you feel empty inside?" A mixture of anger and sorrow bounce her voice between the rusty walls several times over, almost drowning out the sound of her rapid coloring.

"You think you're disappointed now? Just wait until your body dies. Wait until you realize in that moment before infinity claims your essence that you threw away a perfectly good gift by wasting the only shot you'll ever be given to find your one and only truly meaningful existence!" She's still not looking anywhere near me at all.

I begin peering hard through the floor and she snaps her fingers at me,

"Hey! Light! Here! I can't see what I'm doing!" She barks. Her gaze remains fixated upon the paper heart as my visual field draws closer and illuminates her little astral arts and crafts project.

"You're right." I say, and for some reason admitting this surprises me. "You fought for me. You saved me. I don't think anyone has done anything like that for me. Ever." I'm trying not to sound as angry as I am becoming toward myself. "I believe that by coming here, with that one simple act of decency, you've given me the strength and the will power I need to fight back against everything I wanted to leave behind forever. I hope to find some way I can return the favor. I owe you that much."

"You don't owe me anything!" She almost screams into her artwork, genuinely taken aback. "You owe it to yourself! Now more than ever!"

I watch carefully as she continues scrawling rapidly across the paper heart. I know she's right, but I also become aware of the fact that from this day forward circumstance alone will drive me to make all the necessary changes. It's not fair having her rescue me from my endless sorrows, regrets, and potential death and it's surely unfair to request she bare with me in attempt at remodeling my life to become a something greater than what I am currently, or what I have been up to this point.

To make my own way out, no one can become part of my life until my life becomes just that: My life.

"Okay. Here's my one shot to even the odds." I say, "It's the only purpose I need and it's the only chance I have to make things right."

I focus solely on the center of her now almost completely decorated paper heart and envision my body and soul combining together as a swirling mixture of glowing blue and green smoke leaving this place. I pretend this smoke is the thread and needle weaving through the fabric pieces of my essence to become one solid creation. I don't know how or if this is going to work, but I'm going to try. For myself; for her.

To gather any lasting sense of meaning and purpose from this one-shot life, I'm going to try.

"What are you going to do when we get out of here?" She asks without looking, still scribbling frantically.

"We're not." I tell her, and as she finishes scratching the last few strokes onto the heart-shaped paper she turns her head and for the first time looks into my eyes just as I begin closing them in concentration. "I'm finding my own way out." I'm being honest with us both. I open my eyes again, in a kind of final glance, as if to say goodbye. Tomorrow I'll be an entirely different person.

She and the astral room fade as another structure begins converging across the parallel gap between dimensions. My astral hideaway soon replaces itself with the serene scents of odorless, industrial ventilation and the low-level lighting of what could only be a long-term, in-house patient care ward. Although the lights are dim enough to cloak the room entirely in shadow, even with my eyes closed I feel burning and discomfort from them. The muscles in my eyelids begin to have uncontrollable spasms. This causes my eyes to water excessively and the teardrops burn my chapped, and almost calloused-over eyelids. I smile even though it feels like every muscle in my face is being set ablaze.

I can't help it.

Now I know for sure someone truly cares about me and I was never really alone. I've never felt this kind of strength before. It's this moment my body decides to become painfully aware of the catheter and IV that I'm attached to, as well as all the atrophied muscles within every inch of my body from the three weeks of being on life support. I smile harder and realize how great the experience of being able to feel pain is.

As is the ability to feel anything at all.

I'm alive. I'm alive and I hope to see her soon so I can thank her in person for guiding me back into the mortal plane of existence. I dread the thought of being trapped in this room for even the slightest of moments longer and decide to take matters into my own hands. Now, to make my own way out, I'm going to have to die again.

I detach the life support from my body.

The high pitched flat line ringtone screaming from the heart monitor may as well be the sweet, sweet melody of life. While waiting for any nurse or doctor to arrive, I keep my eyes closed. I try to imagine the look of shock and utter disbelief on their faces when they witness the miracle that I have truly become. I continue smiling like an idiot despite the pain and begin to visualize the paths I plan to walk along in effort to accomplish the goals I wish to achieve with this one-shot attempt at preparing my mind, body, and soul for a bright future filled with nothing but peaceful nights and better tomorrows.