Unsettled Magic

Chapter 5 - The Haze

        As the haze first started creeping across my skull, I could feel the pricking in my scalp.  The prickling progressed to aggressive probes as it tried to find its way into my mind.  Each lobe of my brain, each hemisphere, felt like it was swelling, trying to push out the invading medicine.  Soon, the haze found a way in and the medication began to work its purpose.  The immense pressure in my head felt like my memories were trying to push back against a thickened cloud of poison.         I was starting to question everything.  I couldn’t remember who I was or what I was doing here.  Vague memories would come to the surface.  Memories like being in a boring classroom, or sitting around a campfire, but nothing of significance.  I couldn’t recall my name, how I got to this vast space which was layered in a suffocating fog, or how I could get out.  Recognizing this as possible amnesia, I tried to come up with a plan.

        I tried to look further into the thickness, hoping to get a feel for my surroundings.  Perhaps if I branched out further, I could get some answers.  I had the sense that there was something here that I needed to know, and it felt important.  I tried turning my head in the opposite direction and found that I couldn’t feel the movement.  In fact, I wasn’t sure I moved my head at all. Whether it was the lack of feeling or the fact that the same thick fog was everywhere, I didn’t know.

        I could hear muffled shouting coming from my left.  I couldn’t tell if it was a person that had come to help or a memory I was suddenly recalling, but it sounded like it was urgent.  I tried getting closer as a darkened shape began to form in the distance. As soon as I tried moving towards it, my feet found themselves glued in place.  I tried the only other thing that made sense to me.  I squinted in the direction of the figure, hoping it would help define its features.  If turning down a car radio can help you focus, why couldn’t this?

        Soon, the faceless figure appeared closer within the mist.  But this time, instead of me trying to approach it, it was headed for me.  There was no room to question this time. This was not a memory; the figure’s actions were intentional.  I tried to reach out my hand in greeting and let it know I was here.   Maybe they could even explain what was going on.  The shape stopped a few feet away and tried talking to me.  I couldn’t explain how I knew it was me it was trying to talk to, but a part of me felt this to be true. 

        At such a close distance, I was hoping I would be able to tell who or what the figure was but the fog between us might as well have been made of brick.  The clarity was no better up close and it seemed even the dark figure couldn’t come any closer.  It was like a wall had been built to keep me in and everything else out.  I could hear some noise, but it sounded more like someone was trying to talk to me through a snorkel from ten feet away.  I tried explaining this to the figure in front of me, but nothing came out. 

        Speaking to it didn’t work. I couldn’t formulate words any more than I could move from my current position. I knew what I wanted to say but it was like I hadn’t learned the words to express it yet.  What was most frustrating was that once I understood this much, the short figure seemed to start retreating. 

        The fog thinned a little and the only thing I could make out was a deep brown blur.  This fog made everything seem like it was under murky water.  It was like the figure wasn’t a figure but the reflection of a mirage.  That had to be what it was. I wanted to understand so badly what I was seeing that the fragments of my mind had pieced together an explanation that only a therapist could understand. 

        As the fog continued to ebb, I began to feel more aware.  My mind felt like it was suffering from a third-degree sunburn that had just been rubbed raw with burlap. Groaning in protest, I lifted my hand to my head and covered my eyes.  

        I never understood why they had huge spotlights in the room.  The headache was quickly turning into a migraine and it took every ounce of my will power to fling my aching body to the side and puke in the waiting trash can.  At least I didn’t get it all down the front of my clothes this time.  It's embarrassing but more common than anyone wanted to admit. 

        I could feel parts of my body trying to fight off whatever I had just gone through.  Snippets of my memory from in the fog were beginning to fade away and the only thing I could remember was the intense aggravation that I could not express myself.  Ro would probably laugh if she heard that, followed by some snarky comment about me “never having that problem before.”

        I waited with baited patience in the room a few more minutes before my nurse came back in.  I saw her glance at the trash can and then at me.  She was probably checking to see if I needed to get cleaned up.  I was grateful that she didn’t bring up my getting sick though.  She smiled softly as she helped me take a few sips of fresh water.  Though the water didn’t ease up the feeling of nausea still rolling around in my stomach, it did help my throat.  I imagine I was screaming for a good portion of my session. 

        She grabbed my hands and helped me stand. I was still a little unsteady on my feet. I wondered how long I’d been out this time.  My limbs felt like I just participated in a triathlon without any proper preparation.  A raspy “thanks” was all I could muster towards her as I made my way to the door.  Using the wall as my support and guide was something I was immensely grateful for. 

        Eventually, I found my way to the recovery room.  I knew the clinic staff needed the treatment room for the next patient and Ro and I always waited for each other afterwards.  As soon as I walked in, I noticed she wasn’t back yet.

        Even when I go in after her, I’m usually out first.  It's not that we are given different medication, everyone our age is given the same amount.  For some reason I just have an easier time after the fact.  There had been plenty of times when the nurses had to escort Rowan out to the recovery room because they needed the treatment rooms.  Sometimes she can’t even recall who she is.  I’ve never been as bad as that when I come out of the final stage, but then the treatment affects everyone differently. 

        Picking a seat somewhat close to the door she will be coming out of, I leaned back in my chair and wait.  The overall mood in the recovery room was one of begrudging acceptance.  It was rare that most people in my pack displayed any mood other than transparency, but for the brief period it takes for everyone to recover, an empty acceptance was all anyone seemed to muster.  Acceptance that this is our life now.  Acceptance for the daily misplacement of emotions and feelings for anything other than pain or loss. 

        Unlike the sparsely seated waiting room, the recovery room was packed with people who felt sapped of energy. The woman directly to my right looked as though she was genuinely contemplating if she had the will to live.  As people would finish with their own personal hell, they would shuffle out of the treatment area and stumble into an available seat.  To say I was the least traumatized person among this waiting room was an understatement. 

        Going in, people had vacant expressions but otherwise looked healthy.  Coming out, their eyes had sunken in and their face had hallowed out.  As much as I couldn’t understand why the treatment didn’t affect me as much, I was curious to know what it was like for others.  I could never bring myself to ask anyone though.  Making someone live through that more than necessary was just cruel.

        My head felt like it was splitting in two, and my vision would blur periodically but overall I was managing.  My body felt extra heavy and sluggish, but a deep soak in the bath followed by a long hard sleep would have me fixed up by school tomorrow.  With the added benefit of being less anxious.  At least there was that.  The anxiety that comes right before treatment day always made me feel like I was forgetting something important. 

        Just as I was about to lean back in my chair and close my eyes, the recovery room door opened again.  Glancing over, my jaw nearly dropped.  It was the blond-haired boy from class earlier today!  I got up to approach him when I noticed he had just fished out headphones, and music already played through the speakers.

        Turning, he looked me directly in the eyes as he plugged the earbuds into his ears. This jerk was clearly trying to avoid talking.  I followed his gesture as he flicked his eyes over to the door he just came from, with Ro stumbling out from behind it.  I ran to catch her before she fell and looked back at the boy once I had her supported.  Yet again, I was presented with his retreating back.  If I didn’t know any better, I would say that there was even a bit of rhythm to his step.  How could he be so put together after a situation like that?  I knew I was pretty collected, but I’ve never noticed another pack member who didn’t have problems like Ro had. 

        I glanced at my friend as she tried to support her own weight.  I kept my arms around her and helped her over to a chair. She would be well enough in a few minutes for us to start our slow trek back home.  After treatment, we would usually have a sleepover. Rowan says it helps her to clear her mind.  If that’s what she needed to feel put together, I had no problem being there for her.

        “Did you see that glorious hunk of sunshine?”  she whispered.

        “What?  Are you talking about a person or actual sunlight….?"  I was confused.  Was this in line with her after-treatment behavior or was she attempting to put together coherent thoughts?

        “That blonde boy… the one that came out before me.” She groaned, clasping her hands around her head.  I understood.  Sometimes the sound of your own voice was too loud to tolerate after a treatment.

        “That was the other conscious walker I was telling you about!” I tried to keep my excitement to a tolerable volume.

        “He was gorgeous… like a god walking among us…” the wistfulness in her voice was matching the hearts in her eyes.  I grinned at her expression. 

        “And his skin.” she continued.  “It was like he was Icaris, flying too close to the sun.  Perfectly golden…” her wistful sigh had me arching my eyebrow.  If someone other than me could pull her out of her haze so quickly, I definitely needed to find out more. Who was this guy, and why was he so much like me?

        Almost immediately, I decided I would play matchmaker for my friend.  I would make this happen if it were the last thing I did.  If she could find her own match before going through the Mate Connection Program when she becomes sixteen, that would be even more ideal. 

        Now that we had rested for a few minutes, we should probably head home.  We were both eager to get away from this place.  Standing, I held out my hand to her.

        “Think you can walk?” I asked, wincing at the hopefulness in my voice.  I didn’t want to pressure her if she wasn’t ready.  To my surprise though, she shot up and nodded her head.

        “Yeah!  Think we could catch up with Mr. Hottie?  I want to learn his name!” I had to laugh as she led the way out. That’s never happened before.  Everyone in the recovery room groaned at the sound of my laughter and I quietly apologized as we bowed out the door.  Hopefully we could figure out which way he went and catch up to him or I would not hear the end of it tonight.