ICU

Flash Fiction by Robyn Minter

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ICU Photo Rachel Claire.jpg

ICU

 

I’ve been having dreams.

Dreams of drowning in a warm sea. It’s comforting, inviting. Do I care that I can’t breathe? There’s something in my throat. It scratches and gags me, pushing air into my resistant lungs.

Dreams of spaceships soaring through the universe. Stars light up the dark while my control console beeps out a predictable rhythm. The rhythm falters. Alarms blare. Darkness draws near. There’s shouting, movement, and the rhythm returns. The darkness falls back.

Dreams of family gathered together. We’re at a barbeque. Everyone’s laughing. The air smells strange, like antiseptic. Maybe the meat’s gone off. Someone’s crying. Is that you, mom? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Forgive me?

Dreams of angels and demons. They call to me. I don’t understand. It’s bright. I’m scared. I’m happy. Behind them lies two paths. Or at least I think there’s two. Why am I in so much pain? I don’t remember hurting myself. My friends always say I need to take it easy more often. Maybe I should listen.

The paths blur and start to fade. I understand now. I have to choose, but which is which? Does it matter? I suppose not. After all, they’re just dreams.