Aisling sits on the ever uncomfortable couch. The room around her is bare and cold.

Cold, she thinks, and pulls a blanket around her. The television is playing a movie that tugs at her memory, makes her want to drag the scene up and relive it, bask in the nostalgia. But she cant remember it, no matter how hard she tries. The vaguely familiar music plays on, dancing through her head as if it belongs. It doesnt. Her mom comes to visit and brings the cold in with her. Shut the door, she hisses, but then closes it herself before Aisling can move. She walks over to the couch and sits down, and the room is still cold, very cold. But Aisling cant find her blanket. Darling, her mom says. She cant hear you. Her mom starts crying and Aisling pats her back. Her hands are very numb after touching her and she just wishes her mother would go away and take the cold with her. Maybe then Aisling will be able to feel her toes. When are you going to give up? Aisling is in a field and the sun is shining. She feels uncomfortably warm. She tries to tug off her coat, unravel the layers of clothing not right for this weather. The flowers look up at her and the sun glares down and her sister is there, taking her hands, and shes cold. Please wake up, her sister says. Aisling doesnt know what she means, so she runs away, her clothes disappearing until shes in nothing but the slip she wore under her dress at prom. And now she wants her coat back, wants the warmth of the disapproving sun because the flowers are staring. staring until theyre withered and shes back on the couch. The movie is ending, the credits are rolling, and it starts snowing. Shes speeding down the hill like a million times before, like she spent three summers doing. The difference in environment doesnt matter; the icy chill feels good on her cheeks after being inside all day, and this is exhilaration in its finest form. The straps of her unbuckled helmet flap against her cheeks and she smiles. Ducking low over the handlebars, she prepares to slide effortlessly back up onto the sidewalk, riding the bump out by standing up, still thrilling as if standing up is actually that much of a risk. Her helmet flies off and she swerves, crashing back to the seat and leaning forward to gain control. Her scarf, having been flying recklessly in the wind, tangles in the wheel. The bike jerks violently and she flies, lands, skids, crashes.

Theres screaming and pain and she surrenders her world to silence. Its raining blood outside. The smell clogs her nostrils and she turns to grab an umbrella, but finds herself back in the field, except now its full of roses and the sun is dying, glorious red. She falls into the roses and the thorns slice at her, tearing into her like shes paper. But she doesnt feel anything. Its too cold. We have to go. Well be back. Well be waiting. Her sister smells like roses. There is silence all around, pressing down and suffocating Aisling. It loops around her and knots itself and drags her into its deceivingly sweet existence. Shes alone; the television stopped working a few days ago and thats when the silence crept in. She thinks. Quiet is lonely, lonelier than she imagined when she wished for it. It reminds her of taking the back roads on her way home at night, speeding up to avoid being caught in the dark alone, feeling threatened by the very nothingness of everything. She cant escape this nothingness now because when she tries to run she finds herself back on the couch. Her blankets back again but theres no cold creeping in from outside. Theres not much of anything out there. The cold seems to be coming from her now. The ambulance comes within minutes of the call. Someone who claims to be a nurse starts checking for vital signs. The girls frail body seems to curl into itself when a few brave people venture closer. Most dont want to get close enough to see the blood. To see the devastating injuries. They dont even help get her untangled from the bike. The nurse announces shes still alive and a few onlookers act relieved. And now the paramedics take over and soon the girls all loaded up on a stretcher. The ambulance speeds away before any onlooker can think to grab the girls bag and give it to one of them. Instead, a bystander hands it to a police officer. He locates a cell phone and dials the number under mom. He crumbles several lives.

Aisling is bowling. Her seven year-old self is a few lanes down, sitting out and watching the others throw the bowling balls. Fourteen year-old Aisling is another few lanes down, kissing a boy. She puts her fingers in the holes on her bowling ball and throws it down the lane. It collides with the pins with a clink but shes barely paying attention. Her fingers are coated in blood, and its spreading, and now her entire hand is covered. The bowling alley is silent and dark and cold. Aisling wipes her hand off on her jeans and throws another ball. She doesnt know the guy whos reading Gone with the Wind to her but she doesnt mind because its nice. Hes a blur; the only thing steady is his voice, readily churning out pages of narration and dialogue. But he himself doesnt have any features. Hes a smudge on her couch, next to her in the field, sitting with her in the bowling alley. Shes still cold, but doesnt want a blanket anymore. Who are you, she asks. Can I stay a little longer? That isnt what she wants to know. She tries again. Why are you here? Alright. He blends into the couch and shes left in silence. Her sister is in a pool of blood, tangled up with a bike. There are rose petals in her hair. Aisling is drowning, falling down a rabbit hole into a vat of boiling nothing. The silence presses down and she twitches, reaches up, finds herself bound in blankets, in coats, and its too hot. Shes choking on herself. I just cant do this anymore. Shell wake up soon. I have to get back to work. We cant leave her. We cant live our lives waiting for her. Everyone else has already gone home. And you want to leave her too?

Hes wonderful. His voice washes over her like a hug she cant feel, telling her about his day in a world she doesnt know. A world that hes expanded to include a toy store full of broken toys, a sailboat on a murky lake. He fills it with stories. But shes always cold. So cold. Barely anyone visits her, anymore. Ill come back after lunch? A gentle clasp of hands, smooth against rough. A tangle of impossible fingers trapped in a world of their own. No twitch, no movement. Just a blur of nothing and no response. Shes dancing with the queen. Theyre spinning around, twirling each other into a mess of happiness. Shes laughing with the queen and the king is nowhere to be found. A mouse bows, asks to cut in, and she falls back on a bed of flowers who caress her, tell her stories, lull her to sleep. Shes sitting on her couch with a bouquet of flowers sitting next to her. The boys name is Fidel. He takes her to dinner and offers to pay, even though the food never comes. Shes hungry but there arent any waiters. The restaurant is empty. She brushes hair out of her eyes. What are her chances? Theres no answer to his question, so Fidel floats away. Aisling with her mom, drinking tea. Theyre in a field, on her blanket, and its cold. Even the tea is chilly, but she still drinks it as if it will warm her up. Her mother doesnt seem to notice. How is she? The question echoes around and Aisling finds herself wanting to know, too. The same. The flowers answer. Youve kept going to that hospital every day. I

Even since I left. He shrugs. She doesnt press. For a while, there is a gap in their world. But then hospital bills and monthly visits filled it, and they forgot it was there in the first place. Forgot what having extra money was like, what having a second daughter felt like. Except for the occasional visits, they had stitched up their lives and moved on. Will she get better? Will who, she wants to ask, but doesnt want to know the answer. Fidel makes Aislings world full of wonder. He brings her out of the room with the couch, shields her from the flowers accusing stares, and its all she can ask. Hes wonderful. But she cant feel him, cant touch him. Shes still numb, and his voice is growing fainter. The moon isnt made of cheese, but of rock. She falls and scrapes her knees and floats and dances. The vampire king laughs and Fidel tells stories and she breaks her teeth on the moon, but it doesnt hurt. Nothing hurts. The cold is gone, for everything is cold in space. Even the fire. The silence is all-encompassing, pressing down on her, enveloping her in And she hurts. Fidel holds her hand. She burns. Aisling is in the middle of another movie when the phone rings. It blocks out what the main characters saying so she reaches, tries to silence it. Everything silences. Did you The world explodes. She has been there for only two days when the new patient checks in. The small girl is only nineteen, home from her first year of college on winter break when

awful.

the bike accident happened. Across the next year, she gets hands-on experience in how to take care of a comatose patient. Its a quiet job, and she likes it despite the depressing nature. But that goes away, for the most part, once the poor girls family stops visiting so much. And the old friend of the patients who appeared one day is easy to handle; he doesnt cry, just reads. So she isnt used to getting buzzed for that room. Generally, the only time shes there is when she chooses to check in. Shes never called. But one blustery winter day, nearly a year after the patients arrival, shes buzzed to the room. And so she goes, the day quiet enough that she can immediately drop what shes doing. Her hand moved, the boy says when she enters, standing up and then sitting back down, looking unwilling to let go of the girls hand as if that would make it stay still. It moved. He looks amazed. She can understand why. Aisling is never alone. Her sister is there, her parents are there, Fidel is there. . Constantly, floating on the edge, as blurry as Fidel always is. They talk of her moving as if she hasnt done it before but she finds their conversations perfectly reasonable. And they barely speak to her. How long have you been coming here? Ten months. I knew her from school. When my mom was sick, I saw her here, too. I just kept coming back. Thats very kind of you. Where were you? Weve had to work. The hospital bills are high. Aisling falls asleep during a movie and wakes up later to find herself in a bed. There are people talking, all around her. She recognizes her mothers voice and maybe her fathers. But try as she might, she cant open her eyes. Her eyelids feel like the potato sacks she could never lift. She tries to move, even a little. Her hand is the last thing she tries, as its clasped in someone elses. She manages to twitch her fingers, and then she falls asleep again. Shes sitting on her couch wrapped in a blanket, watching that same movie. Its snowing.

After the first time, it doesnt happen again for a week. But still, there are people there at her bedside constantly, like right after the accident. Fidels beginning to lose hope, beginning to think he imagined her hand moving, when it happens again. Shes trying, the nurse comments. He starts reading to her again, whenever he gets the chance. He knows he doesnt belong there, now that she has her family again, but he finds he cant leave. Maybe its unusual, but somehow hes become invested. He wants her to wake up, to come back to the conscious world. Even if he barely knows her, he cares. The snow piles around her, making her shiver uncontrollably. Shes wearing nothing but the slip, but there are no flowers to watch her, no sun to glare at her. Everythings black but the snow, and even that looks menacing as it takes her in its icy grasp. She opens her eyes, which have more snow on them than she realized because her eyelids are very heavy. But she manages and instead of a black sky, shes staring at a white ceiling. Oh my God. A boy around her age looks up from the page he was reading, puts the book aside, and leans over. He presses a button and then stares at her. Hes holding her hand. Her head falls to the side and she falls back into the snow. It turns to rain. It takes another month, but slowly, slowly the girl starts to spend more time awake. She regains a regular sleeping pattern and its sleep, now, not unresponsive unconsciousness and starts communicating. Barely, and never through speech, but she nods, and frowns, and smiles. her. She smiles most for the young man who still spends his afternoons reading to The nurse watches as the girl tries to reconnect with the world she lost. Do you know why youre here? It takes a minute, but she finds the answer and shakes her head no. She wishes she could talk, but she can barely manage to follow a conversation, much less get involved in it. The slowness frustrates her, but she cant she just cant keep up. You got in a bike accident, the boy explains. Hes so familiar but she doesnt know, cant place his voice or face. You were in a coma for a year. Oh. She frowns, and stops listening to the story. A year is a long time.

The field is full of blood and roses and flowers that stare and a sun that glares behind the snow that falls. Shes screaming and now shes on a couch in a room with a television that sucks her in, back to the field, to the bowling alley thats silent. Back to the silence that wraps around her and traps her. Aisling! someone exclaims with a snap of fingers, and she comes back. Its an unforeseen, but not unreasonable side effect, the doctor explains. Hallucinations. Shes having trouble distinguishing between dreams and reality. Her sisters sitting in the corner, but shes also standing next to the bed, just off of a plane. The one in the corner is bleeding. Aisling keeps glancing at the one in the corner and then back at her parents, at the other sister, at the boy sitting in a chair a bit away from everyone. Help she begins, and everyone stares at her. Help her. She points. Her mother cries. Fidel watches a miracle occur. Within a few months, Aisling is talking slowly, but shes talking, and making progress in physical therapy. Her muscles are atrociously weak but he believes that shell make it, that shell pull through. Shes a miracle. He wishes the same could be said for her psychological health. Aisling spends half of her waking hours on a couch in front of a television, in a field, in a bowling alley, in a broken-down toy store. The rest are spent listening to her family, but they dont come every day anymore. Only the boy comes every day. Aisling doesnt even remember him. An entire year of her life is gone, though, so she supposes she doesnt remember much. Even some of her memories since waking up are gone. The boys explained to her three times already what happened, how the accident went. At least, he says its been three times. She wishes she could say that its getting better, but it isnt and she hates it. The field has become a puddle of mud. She sits amongst the drowned flowers, completely alone. But the silence isnt strangling her. Everything whispers with a muted sound she cant quite make out. Something shes not allowed to hear. But its peaceful.

Fidel appears, forever a blur. He smiles and takes her hand and pulls her away and suddenly she knows what everything is saying and its overwhelming. Her head hurts. Wheres Fidel? Aisling asks. Shes been quiet all day long, looking troubled but not hallucinatory. But thisthis is odd. Im Fidel, he says. He thought she knew that. She stares, and then begins to cry. He pats her hand awkwardly, wishing he could make it better. But he doesnt even know her. And she doesnt know him. Why are you still here? her mother asks. I dont know, he answers truthfully. I just want to help. She doesnt even know you. I think she does, actually, Fidel replies. The conversation dies and they watch Aisling sleep. Fidel arrives after classes one day to find Aisling standing by the window, looking out at the rain. She turns when he enters, recognition on her features. You came back, she says, and smiles. Shes not talking to him. I did, he still says, and returns the smile. She blinks, her eyes sliding back into focus, and stares. YouIm Aisling, she greets, and shuffles over to him, holding a thin hand out for him to shake. Her face is pale, drawn, the picture of life lost and found. Im Fidel, he replies, even though he shouldnt have to. You want to hear a story? The flowers stare as she leaves the hospital. Fidel holds her hand and protects her from their gaze.