Nightingale

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Gift

So this was it. The "it" was finally happening. I had dreamt about it so many times it was hard to distinguish whether it was real or if it was the dream. But could I really say it was a dream? I mean shouldn't it be considered a nightmare? Well, I couldn't say I nightmared it. That was a little too southern, even for me. I always wondered if I'd be able to tell the difference between the dream and the real thing. Now, here I am, lying broken and bleeding on the cold concrete of the parking garage adjacent to the Crafton Memorial Hospital, the smell of fresh oil and old exhaust burning my nose, the humidity so thick I'd be gasping for air even I weren't dying. Yes, I said dying. This is the night I am going to die, if it's not the same old dream. The place is the same, the smells are the same, the sounds are the same, and even the pain is the same. It's got to be real this time, not that I'm looking forward to dying in such a violent manner of course, but it sure beats reliving it every night.

There's still something missing. I feel the cold concrete beneath my cheek and the excruciating pain in my chest. I open my eyes to gaze blurrily at the familiar curve of the chrome bumper only a few yards away; I must be lying right behind my car. The air is so hot and thick that I can barely breathe; there's a sickening gurgle in my chest, and I feel like I'm slowly drowning. All of the sensations are exactly the same as always, so why does it not make sense yet? I try to focus my fading vision to locate the last clue, to finish the macabre puzzle, but nothing is different. I hear the crickets screaming for rain in the wooded area that surrounds the west side of the parking garage. I want to scream, too, but can barely manage an audible gurgle.

I hear footsteps running but can't tell if they're towards me or away. I hear the deep timbre of a man's voice call out, "Doc Weathers, she's over here!"

But wait. Now there's a new sound, a piercing beeping noise. It sounds like the backup sensor of a large truck, and it's becoming louder by the second. Oh, that's great. Now I'm going to be backed over by a truck? I'm trying so hard to move but can't, and the noise is getting louder and closer. I am beginning to feel fluid rising into my throat, and the gurgling is worse. Oh, God, I'm drowning in my own blood! I feel it reach my mouth and brace myself for salty iron taste that's sure to follow, but it doesn't. All I taste is the burning acidity of bile as my stomach lurches me back to reality and the screaming alarm clock beside my head. I guess I found my backup sensor. Damn! It was only the dream, again.

I slammed my hand down mercilessly against the snooze button of the alarm clock and fought the urge to throw it across the room. I sat up quickly and wrapped my arms tightly around my mid-section as I ran to the bathroom. I splashed my face with icy water, then gingerly lay on the cold tile floor, trying not to throw up. As I pressed my cheek to the tile, I realized I had never heard the man's words until last night. I had always heard the rumble of his speech but could never make it out. What did he say? The gray fog was moving in fast, and I forced myself to concentrate. Finally, I whispered his words. "Doc Weathers, she's over here."

But it doesn't make sense because the only Dr. Weathers to ever practice at Crafton Memorial was Michael Weathers I, and he had been retired for 18 years. Michael Weathers II had become a lawyer, and Michael Weathers III was probably still funneling beer and screwing sorority girls. Last I'd heard, he had flunked out of his second attempt at med school. Could that really be what he said? He stopped practicing years ago, even moved out of state. What the hell? The confusing nature of my new found puzzle piece outweighed my nausea, and I hurried for my notebook to write it down. I always dated each entry so I'd have a time frame of how long it took before it happened. I'd been having the same dream for six months now. I always try desperately to hold on to the dream or at least a piece of it. I even started keeping a notebook on my nightstand six months ago so I could immediately jot down what I could remember before the gray fog consumed it. That's how I knew it would be me this time. The notebook became my puzzle box. When was it going to end? My subconscious refused to give me the whole picture. Guess I'd have to settle for one piece at a time.