Melissa

All he knew at first was that the thing wasn't connected to the crook of his arm anymore. And he didn't feel the plastic things in his nostrils. And everything was quieter, at first. All he heard was a far-off whoosh of air, no more of the electronic beeps and tones that had filled the room for over three months. And, he didn't know how to say it, but the white had changed. It was moon-white now, not plastic-white, all the color bleached out. Now it was a gentle, warm white, a luminous white that glowed behind his eyes.

And he felt good. He wasn't sure exactly what he felt, actually, but he knew what he didn't feel. He knew it keenly. He didn't feel pain. And he didn't feel fear. For the last few months, fear pricked at him every time someone in a uniform came into the room, which was every five minutes, it seemed. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, assorted technicians, the people who wheeled around the magazines and books. And the pain that came on its own schedule. In the beginning, it came exactly when they said it would. "You'll feel a twinge." "Okay, now—this might hurt a little." "You'll be sore for the next few days."

The morphine wasn't able to keep it at bay by the end. It had grown, gathered its strength and regrouped. When it came back, it came back glorious. And every day, even when he was asleep—he could see this now—Melissa had come. To hold his hand, he thought, or sit by his side. Her eyes would be red from crying. And now, a sound did find him, over the rush of wind. It was Melissa, crying. Melissa, who was left behind. Melissa, who was too alive to be sucked into the vacuum.

He didn't feel fear anymore, or pain, but he did feel sadness. A pure sadness. He had no more self-interest to fray the edges of sadness. This was a sadness that was clean and sharp and the sound of Melissa crying made it grow until the clouds rang with it.