Synthetic Perennial by Vivianni Glass

Author:Vivianni Glass
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

* * *

I am dreaming.

I know because I am in my hospital room, it is daytime, and I am all by myself—no white coats, no nurses, not even Mom. The silence is oppressive. It pushes against my head. No monitors. No clicking or whispering or shrieking. Immediately, I notice that I am in my own clothes. Sleek black shorts and a soft tank top, my purple Nikes. It is so nice that all I do is touch my shorts for a few minutes and think about how I am probably broken forever if this is now my idea of a good time.

Is today the day I’m going home? That’s why I am wearing my own clothes. It must be. A bubbling, breathy relief breaks open in me, and I know it’s a dream, but god, I don’t even care, if I can just believe it for however long this moment lasts. I sit up smoothly with no pain or dizziness and look around. My body doesn’t resist me when I kick my legs over the side of the bed. If I stand up, my feet will anchor me. I could walk all the way to the door and think about something, anything, else.

My door is cracked, just barely open. I glide over to it, reaching out a confident hand, then stop. There are low voices on the other side. People are gathering out there. They’re getting ready for something, but I can’t hear what.

“They got guns, Meems,” a voice says behind me. There is only one person in the world who calls me that.

I spin around. Sitting on a stool by the window is my cousin Kenny.

“Kenny! You’re here!” Of course he is here. He is my cousin and best friend and payment for everything I did right in another life—of course he’s in my good dream. I scramble over the bed, lunge for him. I can’t tell if I’m crying or if the room is sweating jubilation. I can smell the aftershave lotion he wears on his face. I know he hates when people hang on him, but I can’t stop myself and I almost have him when—

“Cut it out.” His tone is quiet, crisp, impatient. “We don’t have a lot of time, Meems. Come on.” He’s dressed like he always is, as though he’s on his way to a very casual happy hour on Wall Street. His glasses throw light from the window, and I can’t see his eyes. In his hands, he holds a shoebox. Setting it in his lap, he straightens his collar, rolling his shoulders back to sit taller. He looks away like he’s embarrassed by the way my eyes cling to him.

The air leaves the room. I look down and notice a PICC line in my right arm, three medical lines spidering from it to bags on an IV pole that stands close to my right hip. Looking down, my shoes are gone, replaced by hospital socks. I am exposed again in my issued uniform of access and humiliation: open-assed, mass-produced, industrially sterilized gown.

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