FREE FALL — CHAPTER 5
What is it? What is it? What is it? I don’t know, It’s stuck inside. It’s bolting through. It’s stifling me; I am inward bound, holding myself captive. I’m tearing at the seams. It’s killing me. It’s making me keel over. It’s giving me trouble. It’s burying me deep within everything that’s causing me this nothingness. Me. Me. Me. It’s all about me. Nothing but what makes this person I have chosen. Sex, news, god, drugs, friends, demons, love, food, trans-everything. It wants to pour out of me. It wants to be free. An end to me, to start afresh. It wants to fly, wings spread and soaring through the sky, out of this cranial cage it refuses to break out of, despite my best efforts. Effort. Effort. Effort. Every bloody effort to let go. But, it stays cloistered within, writhing and groaning, driving me crazy, letting me beg relentlessly only to be treated with a terse shake of the head to signal outright dismissal. In threes. In threes, it all comes to me. In threes, it stutters and stops, beginning only to fizzle out; commencing the race, stumbling over the pace, never crossing the finish line. Thoughts. Blasted fucking conflicted bleeding cock sucking convoluted shitty goddamn confused thoughts. Memories. Dreams. Images. Movies. Words. Music. Art. Bullshit. Cocker spaniel. Swamp water. Midas’ world of gold. Flowing. Flooding. Depleted. Semen down a drain pipe. Masturbation, no impregnation. Beating off for futility’s sake. Coming to and for a standstill. I want nothing. Give me something. Please?
I wake up to my ears popping and a sudden cacophony of sound gushing in. Instantly, it annoys me. Simultaneously, I open my eyes as I try to get up. Sight distracts from sound. I can see grey plastic above me, but can’t move an inch. The last thing I can remember, before the blackness, is trying to move. It pained. Oh, god, it tore me into a million fragmented pieces of pure torment. This time, though, I find I am incapable of movement. I’m flat on my back and I can’t even turn my head, forget the rest of my body. All I can see is the grey plastic above me.
Grey blankness. Uniform textured grey without a single mark on it. No variation, no hitch, no difference. Homogeneous all the way, as if created to visually represent the word melancholy. This is torture far worse than anything physical pain can give birth to. I have no agency. I’m stuck in a sphere of grey, to which the blankness with it’s pictures was preferable. I have no idea where I am, who put me here, who will get me out. Will anyone get me out? I’m stuck in some sort of science experiment, aren’t I?
This is what happens when you die. You are stuck in a sci-fi capsule of shiny grey, where it is then decided if you will be sent into the land of light or burn to a crisp for all eternity; will you drink with the gods or be the devil’s feast? Or are the machines done with you and it’s time for you to be incinerated and recreated? Or are you secretly a top secret military weapon, which is going to be used to avert a terror strike? Or you will be sent back as a super pig in a processed food farm; you’ll be born to get fattened and slaughtered, with no other purpose. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? If Karma exists, bearing such cruelty ought to give a soul quite a few brownie points. It must be…
I stop. I’m babbling. Rambling as I skedaddle through the catacomb my thoughts reside in. The longer you move, the faster you run, the more lost you get. Slow down, buddy. Slowing down. Calm. Breathe. I can still breathe. That is definitely good news. I can even smell the staleness of the cold, air conditioned blast blowing down on me from somewhere. I can’t move my head, but my eyes still work. Slowly, I rotate my eyeballs. I can see only grey — above me, to my right, beyond my feet, everywhere. No, wait. To the left. There is something to the left. Color. In the periphery of my vision, an out of focus sliver of blue. I strain to look further and in the process I try to move again. I can’t make out what it is, any better. What this does, though, is make me conscious of the binds holding me down. Now, I stop looking around and look at myself. Not any of that introspection bullshit, but just what I can see of my body.
There is a black strap across my chest, a grey plastic bar holding my waist in place and two more black straps across my thighs and calves. I try to lift my head to see if there is anything below the third band, but my head stays in place. It dawns on me that a plastic helmet of some sort was holding my head in place. My back seems to be on hard, cold plastic and my clothes aren’t helping keep me particularly warm. I am in a loosely tied gown, which ends just below my crotch. I can’t feel the plastic below my naked buttocks, though. To add to my lack of agency, the rudimentary clothing, which barely covers my body, makes me feel extremely conscious of my possible nudity. Especially, my penis and scrotum popping out from below the gown. I feel the flush of embarrassment flood my face, but finally a comprehensive mental picture of my current state presents itself to me.
I am lying flat on my back, a plastic brace running down the length of my spine till my tailbone, kept in place by plastic bands around my head and waist. Below my waist, a thin, soft layer is what my body rests on. In addition to the plastic bands, three black cloth belts restrain my body to this makeshift bed I have been assigned to. My entire body is immobile, my mind is abnormally active. As my mind calms down with this keen analysis of my immediate surroundings, the popping of my ears comes to the forefront of my mind. They are still buzzing with the sound of air rushing to assault my ear drums. I stop looking, I start hearing. The sounds are coming to me with a muffled exaggeration.
Ding. Squeak squeak squeak. Scrape. Ding. Pop. Clip clop clip clop clip clop. Scratch squiggle scratch. Cold honey pouring out with a tinkle. Gruff gusts of wind blowing in response. Loud, sharp bawling; Goliath gently patting David. Bang. A door shuts close. Cold honey followed by a grunt. Squeak squeak squeak. I continue hearing, I start listening.
“Would you like anything, sir?” the frigid nectar trickles forth. “Uhhh…yes. Can you give me a coffee? Strong. No sugar.” comes the weary response. I know that voice. I know that coffee. I struggle to turn and look. I writhe, I strain, I pull, I tug. Nothing happens but a slight shake of the fake bed I am on. A neat head of black hair, tied into a tight bun, comes into my line of vision.
Spinning my eyeballs to the left, as far as I can, I find a gorgeous pair of kohl lined, mascara laced eyes looking straight into mine. I perceive there is a woman’s face, a conventionally good looking face; a yellow jacket on the shoulders with lapels denoting an airline logo, which I am familiar with; the unnaturally neat hairdo and cosmetics laden skin possessed only by actresses and air hostesses; I perceive all this, but all I can see are her eyes. Those eyes see my soul, in this moment, as I do their beholders’. Transfixed, I look deep, as far within as I can. Before I can see much further, the eyes grow clouded with emotion; an emotion I had seen in other eyes, an emotion I had always loathed being the recipient of.
Pity. The eyes look at me with sympathy and a certain helpless yearning to make things better for me. The pitiable glance makes me feel an overwhelming surge of affection for this lovely creature; more than love, more than lust, just endless adoration. I am lost in the joy of her eyes and fall in love with all that they are making me feel. Overwhelmed, with a swelling heart, I think I can die happy now. Time seems to be waiting for us to signal the end of this moment. She bends down deliberately, holding my gaze, for as long as she can, before looking away. The magic is lost to the throes of reality.
Before I can see it coming, a wave of pity for myself crashes down, with a force greater than any tide could have mustered. I feel terrible for myself, for my helplessness, for my state of vegetation, for my utter and complete impotence. It washes over me; consuming me, drowning me, suffocating me. A solitary tear leaks out of one eye, even as the other eye tears up. The flood gates are getting ready to open. However, just then, a stream of broken memories flash through my mind.
A series of still images form the stop motion video of my life over the past few months, starting from the joyous peak I had been on to my descent into destruction, which I had desperately culled out for myself. The months of debauchery, jam sessions, debates, inebriation, adultery, passion, ideas, learning, subjective moralities, depravity, inspiration, fear and chutzpah are strung together cohesively and remind me of the journey that has led to my present condition. The floodgates seal themselves tight. My moment of weakness and self-pity passes. I regain my composure and pull up my strength from the abyss it has taken refuge in. I wipe away the tear and moisture, from my cheek and eyes, with my left hand; the one that isn’t wrapped tight in bandages. I had made my choices, it is now time to face the consequences. No matter what they are, I am resolute that I will come out smiling, shining brighter than ever before.
“Sir, he… I think your son is awake, sir.” came the young voice, with a quiver of vulnerability in it. The honey had evaporated, the ice melted. It feels good to know that behind the mask of conditioned professionalism, a human being — filed with empathy and compassion — still exists. As soon as she said this, though, all my abstractions abandon me. That voice I knew responded “Sorry…he’s up?”. And I know, beyond all possible doubt, whose voice it is. My father’s face rises into my line of sight, like the bright sun rising on a bleak winter’s morning. Once again, the floodgates threaten to break open and I can see that my father is equally close to letting tears flow down.
We are men, though. We had been taught that tears were not something men could indulge in; strength was our preserve. No amount of anti-patriarchal learning or feminist principles could break us out of this repressive conditioning. So, we ensure the floodgates are secured and greet each other with watery smiles. Behind my father’s head comes my brother’s, smiling sunshine, as he has an ability to do, no matter how dire or dramatic the situation. Instinctively, I know he has been cleaning up my mess, as has been our practice for over two decades now. I feel little, minuscule in the face of his patience and resilience when tasked with my self-consumed madness.
As I smile at my brother, my father’s sweaty palm slips into my clammy left palm and his fingers grip my hand. I don’t think he intends this, but his grip grows extremely tight. My gaze shifts to his face, from my brother’s, to protest his manhandling of my one good limb, but the words die before they reach my lips. His face is mired in grief and pain; sorrow, like I had never seen on those facial features, is etched in almost indelibly. Not even when his own parents had died had I seen this angst; not when his siblings passed; not when he lost his entire life’s savings; not when the most brutal calamities befell all of humanity. He had always dealt with emotionally trying situations with a stoicism I had admired. But, now… now he seemed to be doused in all the suffering of the seven underworlds; as if possessed by Erebus, himself.
I had felt quite a bit of physical pain; a lot of emotional turmoil; plenty of mental conflict. However, I have never felt so completely torn and tattered; eternally lost in a spiral of endless depression. Seeing my father — a beacon of strength and composure — broken and miserable, hurts me beyond compare. The guilt born of my actions, and their effect on others, racks me. My internal organs feel like they are each being wrangled; breathing is growing difficult as I bottle up this pain, as well as I can, steadfastly holding that watery smile on my face. I had hurt him enough; I have absolutely no right to make him feel any worse by displaying even an ounce of pain.
No words passed between us. He gently stroked my partially plastic covered face and I let his hand brush some life force back into me. I felt another hand on my knee and knew that my brother was giving me some of his strength, as well. I needed it. I needed everything I could get. Not only had I led myself down a self-destructive path and hurt myself, to what degree I still wasn’t sure, but I had hurt the people closest to me, whose only fault in this entire tale was that they loved me to death, as dearly as their own lives.
It was clear by now that I was in an aeroplane. If my father and brother were in it, my best guess was that we were headed home. I was bursting with questions for them: is it serious, what is wrong with me, how hurt am I, how long before I am alright, will I ever be alright? I abruptly blurted all of this out and received a response from my father, who managed to keep his voice tender and devoid of the strain his face failed to hide. I was informed that I had fractured four vertebral columns in my spine and torn four ligaments in my right leg, apart from a myriad cuts and bruises across the length of my body. The car I had totaled was on it’s way to a scrap yard. It would take time, some money, a lot of care and endless pain, but I would be alright. I would be up and walking, if not running, in the next 4–5 months.
In the meantime, I had to be under complete bed rest. If there was even a minor deviation from what the doctors prescribed, there was a high chance of being paralyzed from the neck down. My state on the stretcher would be my state for the rest of my life, albeit with a mobile head and no need for straps or braces to keep the rest of me stationery. Immediately, I resolved to be under ‘strict bed rest’ till such time it was needed. What I didn’t fully comprehend, at that point, was what the term bed rest entailed.
My father went on to say that my back was in an extremely critical state. They had had to remove a few baggage shelves on the plane to load in a stretcher, as my back was not stable enough to be seated, on a plane or off. Even now, if the plane went through bad turbulence, the pressure could lead to my broken vertebrae pressing down on the nerves causing paralysis. My physical mobility, my dreams, my passions, my furies, my fate — they all lay, for the immediate future, in the hands of the pilot and his crew.
The pilot’s voice boomed from the plane’s PA system. In a monotonous rhythm, unique to pilots, he informs us that we will be landing in my city, shortly. He also gives us a bunch of useless information like the weather and the like, droning on endlessly and taking a few extra seconds to introduce himself and his co-pilot. Like anyone cares! He isn’t to be blamed, though. How was the poor chum to know that I had just been given absolutely devastating news about my body; that I relied entirely on his concentration and skill, to ensure that the rest of my life wasn’t to be lived alternating between a bed and a wheelchair?
On hearing the pilot’s announcement, my father and brother patted my hand and leg, respectively, and took their seats, preparing for the landing. I return to my hobby of staring at the grey plastic above me, awaiting touchdown. My return to the hallowed land. My homecoming. That’s when the realization dawns with the full emotional force such realizations tend to dawn with.
On landing at home, I would be confronted with my mother; that amazing lady who had borne and raised me, only to be scared out of her skin by an act she had no part to play in or control over. My poor, darling mother, who loved me unconditionally and constantly paid the price with the worry I caused her, without reprieve or restraint.
If I had felt such torment when I had seen the look on my father’s face, what would happen when I saw my mother? I close my eyes and do my best to prepare for the guilt and sickness that is bound to take hold of me, when I finally see her. I know it will be of no help, though. The moment I saw the look on her aggrieved face, I would collect that direct ticket to the fires of hell, which had been long awaiting me.
