How a Resurrection Really Feels

[Bailey Raptis]

“Up now and get 'em, boy
Up now and get 'em, boy
Drink to the devil and death at the doctors”
(Franz Ferdinand, “The Fallen”)

May 1st, 2017

I moaned, softly.

I rolled over and pressed my cheek against a pillow, felt cheap sheets and the sun’s heat struggling to keep me warm. I tried to blink my eyes open but they were glued shut with sleep. It took vigorous massaging and rubbing to force them open again, and all that effort that left me worn out. Instead of waking fully up, I went back to sleep once more.

But it was just sleep, and after an hour or so, I woke up properly. I could finally see the room I was in -- a hospital room, if the array of equipment at my side and its steady beeping was any indication. A plastic tube snaked from my wrist up and over to a stainless steel pole on four wheeled legs, with a bag of some indeterminate clear liquid hanging from it. The chirping device had some sort of view screen on it, which displayed a series of lines that seemed to correspond to the beeping. I tried to read the other writing on the screen, but my vision swam and blurred, and I had to shut my eyes for a spell to drive away the dizziness.

When I felt better again, I took a second stab at examining my surroundings. I was in bed -- the sheets were white, the comforter a beige color that matched the walls. A curtain had been drawn in a circle around me, white but thick enough to block me from view and give me privacy. I reached for it and tugged it aside, just enough to see the wooden door that (presumably) led into the hallway. I pulled it back into place, and moved it out of the way on the other side. Several slivers of sunlight, struggling to fight through the thick fingers of the blinds, fell on my face and chest. I swallowed -- once, twice, three times. My tongue felt thick and lined with feathers, or perhaps that prickly sensation in my mouth indicated it was hair. I touched the tip of my tongue to each lip, cracked and dry and with a slight tang of blood. I needed to get up.

I managed to lift myself off of my back into a seated position, but I found myself lacking the strength to pull myself fully upright. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, hunched over and breathing heavily. What the hell? I did not have much more time to think about my weakness, as I heard the door to the room open.

A woman humming some unfamiliar pop song entered, her shoes clicking and adding an unexpected rhythm to the tune. She walked over to the bed and pulled the curtain aside. She hopped backwards, dropping a clipboard and sending her pen skittering across the floor. As she knelt and gathered up her things, she muttered something to herself I could not quite catch. She stood back up, smoothed out the creases in her scrubs, and spoke again in a warm, pleasant tone.

I could not understand a word she was saying.