The Meadow 53 extraordinarily uninteresting. Bad fruit is what got me. Cherries are my Kryptonite. 00:35 | 112/76mmHg | ♥ 61 bpm | 37.6 °C | SpO2 97% The triage has been quiet for so long the sound of the monitors have fallen into step—modular beeps that sound like the brass section in a clumsy, corporeal band. High-pitched bings follow staccato baps. I glance at the blood caked on my arm. Drawn out at the time the needle went in, the asymmetrical drops overlapped until a big circle formed. Existential, this spoked wheel is comprised of four, no, five dimensions and the fifth is where compression occurs. Suddenly cold, I pull the sheet up to my chin until a set of cotton wrinkles form under my neck. My boyfriend reaches over to iron out the creases, his hand lingering on an exposed patch of clear skin. Kappa Katherine approaches and tells me I’m free to go, handing over a set of prescriptive papers that need to be filled on the way out. One by one, she takes away my superpowers—electrodes, clips, and catheters—while flashing a thousand-watt smile so intense it is temporarily blinding. “It’s not your time,” she says before heading for Nancy’s bed at the end of the room. I exchange my gown for the clothes I came in with and take the hand of a man I love so he can lead us towards the exit—eager to leave the speckled linoleum and fluorescent sheen behind. Gossamer filaments blowing past each other on the arms of hurricanes, we transfigure in the eye of every storm. Every breath is a roll of the dice since anything that takes on the burden of stress cannot retain its shape. We cross over another threshold and the doors begin to slide shut behind us. “Michael!” the old woman screams, a tempest gathering strength. All matter, when under pressure, must find a way to convert.
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