Dead, Asleep, or Comatose
Author: Tracy
Word Count: 764
Warnings: Suicide
Part One
It is deathly silent, featureless, completely absent of any sensory input. You search desperately for a way out, but the void goes on forever in all directions. Your screams never leave your throat, or if they do, you can’t hear them. You try to kick your legs, but find that you don’t even know if you have legs. You try to look down to check, but the movement is agonizingly slow, and even when you have tilted your head far enough, you see nothing.
I’m dead. The thought runs through your mind, but you can’t remember dying. One moment you were sitting at your computer, going through emails, and the next you found yourself in this place.
You force yourself to move, bringing your hand up before you, and find that a knife is suddenly clutched in your fist. You don’t know how you know it’s a knife, but you get such an overwhelming feeling that you know it must be true.
The only way to get out is to kill yourself. The voice of the entity that you had hallucinated about possessing your cat echoes in your head. The call had initially sent you to a string of therapists, but now, trapped in this senseless place, the thought seems welcome.
Either I’m dead, I’m asleep, or what Cas said is true. No matter what, it can’t do any harm. You try to steady your nerves, forcing your muscles to turn the blade so it is angled against your neck. You can barely feel the metal against your skin, and you take heart in the fact that this probably means dying won’t hurt much.
One… Two… Three! You press as hard as you can against your neck, gasping slightly at the feeling of your esophagus and arteries and veins disconnecting. It is not painful, but the sensation is an unpleasant one.
You suddenly become aware of a cacophony of input from your eyes, your skin, your ears. Though they would normally have been well below normal, the sensations are positively overwhelming compared to your previous isolation. Dim shapes move before you, and you can feel soft sheets lying on top of you. Harsh beeping sounds come from all around you, and many garbled voices are conversing.
Suddenly, the voices stop. Then a gentle hand comes up to your face, brushing an eyelid all the way open, leaving the other one half-closed, and you see a blurry figure dressed in white. You try to say something, to ask where you are, but all that comes out is a strangled sort of groan.
“She’s awake,” you hear a voice say, and you hear the words repeated by the others surrounding you, until a door is banged open and running footsteps come towards you. Three new people lean over you, their faces blurred beyond recognition.
But the mystery of the three people standing above you is eclipsed by the simple question posed to you. “Do you remember your name?” The voice is the same as the one who first said that you were awake. You think, your mind moving sluggishly, and remember your name. You speak it, and after another prompt and some more thought, produce your last name.
The people in the room begin to filter out, leaving you with the three late-comers. You examine their faces as your vision begins to clear, searching your mind for some recollection of them, for they seem to know who you are.
“What happened?” you finally ask.
The tall one with the long hair exchanges a look with the other two, then takes a deep breath before explaining, “You were in a car crash. You swerved and were hit by another car, and then got knocked off the road.”
You spend some time mulling over his words, processing them, making sure your sluggish brain understands. “How did I wake up?”
“You must have killed yourself in your dream,” the one in the trenchcoat says. “I entered your mind and told you how, but you took a long time to heed my advice. Almost too long. Your brain was shutting down. Any longer and you would have died.” He turns to look at the final one, who had let out a noise of protest at his words.
“Don’t say that,” he orders. “Y/N didn’t die, and that’s what’s important.” He stiffly stands up and comes to the side of the hospital bed. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he mutters, bending down to brush a light kiss against your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you say slowly, frowning slightly. “But who are you?”