The Sheep and The Time Glass

This is Chapter 1 - Part 1 of Six.

The Sheep and The Time Glass is a fictional story I began writing before I went to bed, and the moment woke up. It's partly autobiographical, partly fantasy, and entirely bizarre. I suspect only a select few of you will have the patience to stick with it, and it's strangeness, but I truly do wish to share it with you. To some it will seem silly, to some like a children's book (which it kind of is), but it really is deeply metaphorical is you see it through.

I do hope you enjoy it, Part 2 of Chapter 1 will be posted when it's polished.

The Sheep and The Time Glass

Chapter 1 - The Stage

The boy lay on his back staring into the ceiling. The flickering fluorescents taunted his already tired eyes. The crinkle of the paper that covered the bed under him sliced the silence in Cardiology Examination Room 223. The boy sat upright, looking at his parents. One nodded off into a restless sleep, and the other thumbed through an outdated “Highlights” magazine. The knock on the door was a welcome noise that brought both the parents to their feet. In walked Dr. Leland Schaeffer. He was six feet tall, with graying hair. His body was broad and friendly as he strode happily into the room. With a quick acknowledgement of the parents, he continued for the boy on the table.
“How are you feeling?” He asked his voice crackling, and smoky.
The boy’s response was slow, and careful.
“I have allergies.” The response seemed to give pause to the doctor, and then a slight chuckle. Citing allergies as the only of the boy’s problems at the moment was hysterical. He admired the boy’s humor. As the doctor shifted his stethoscope around the boy’s bare chest, he began to inform the parents of the next step.
“The correction of the coarc was successful, but temporary.” The boy wiggled as the stethoscope came close to a freshly made scar spanning the length of his chest.
“Another operation will be necessary, preferably soon so the vortex can be put into it’s permanent place…” A coarctation of the aorta was an often fatal birth defect. It was when a skin growth blocked off the aortic valve. Most of the fatalities came within one week of birth, after the baby had left the hospital.
The doctor’s words trailed off, and the boy’s perception of the room seemed to go into a slow motion. Mouths were moving but a deafening silence overcame him. His breathing had become short, and he started to get dizzy. This would be the fifth and final episode that the doctors insisted was a normal post-op fatigue that he had experienced in the last few weeks. The boy’s eyes began to roll up and around into the back of his head as his body went limp, then all went into a blinding light.

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As the world before him began to materialize in the form of gray, out of focus shapes, the adrenaline response was immediate. Not having any recollection of what had happened in the Examination Room, the boy was lost in a dizzying maze of panic. Unable to move, he felt himself let out a muted shriek of terror. The room in front of him began to become clearer. Soon he could identify his mother and father, standing close behind a broad plexi-glass window in another room. As the bed began to move, he felt himself come back. His body whipped to the side. His legs kicked wildly as his screams cracked and broke in horror of what he knew was coming. He whipped his head to the left and right, violently trying to break free of his captors. He felt as though he had been tied to the bed, and raised his chest to examine his bonds, what he saw made his blood curl.
Dave and Karen stood behind the window, and watched their son get dragged away. Karen’s body went tense as she watched the boy convulse wildly in horror, but she knew it would soon be over.
The boy was still for only a moment, as he gazed in absolute terror at his legs. Nothing. His body was completely free of any bonds or ties. He willed himself to move, just a little. Move your leg! He thought to himself, panic overtaking him. He felt himself slowly winding down. And finally let his had crash down into the pillow. As he finally heaved deep breaths, lying down, his parents were far out of view. He was now on a fast approach to O.R. 3, Cardiology. As his memory raced through his past surgeries he remembered. The purple pill. It was large and oval shaped, and he had remembered taking it prior to his last surgery. It was a form of propranolol, but much stronger, used to calm young children before surgery to avoid intense panic. As he felt his muscles slowly release, his heart rate slowed. Before a minute had passed, an anesthesiologist placed a mask over his nose and mouth, and all once again faded away.

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The air in the O.R. was palpably sterile, and tasted of chemicals. The anesthesiologist sat peering over the patient, managing an armada of knobs and dials to his right. The surgeon strode upward from the foot of the bed, with a cowboy like swagger. You could hardly tell he was a surgeon, and he would fit more appropriately in 1950’s Chicago crime world, than in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country. His name was Steve Krossnoff, and he was the head surgeon in cardiology. He drove a Ferrari, and he had a wife 18 years younger than he was. His hair was jet black, and greased. He had a large shimmering ring fitted perfectly on his pinky, and he smelled strongly of cologne. When he arrived at the head of the bed, it began. Like some sick, maniacal dance the five surgeons operated like mechanical arms at a car factory, stretching, cutting, twisting, and moving. They spoke in jargon, and seldom looked up from their subject. As the ritual continued, something went askew. The anesthesiologist felt like he had been punched in the gut as a beeping noise began to ring in his ears. Anesthesiologists monitored the brain activity and sedation of a patient as he underwent surgery. Their battery of equipment alerted them if the patient became conscious again, something that was extremely rare. There was a four tiered system of consciousness that most anesthesiologists used went by number. One was the level of sleep that most are put under in a dental procedure, slightly groggy and “out of it”. 2 is a light sleep that can be awakened easily, usually accompanied by a painkiller. This was more commonly used during the resetting of a bone that had been broken. The 3rd level was used in most surgeries. These included surgeries to correct problems that came after an injury, with athletes, the removal of tonsils, or the repair of a minor organ. The 4th, and deepest leel of sedation administered on patients was a very careful procedure. As to not induce cardiac arrest, it required a series of oral medicine, injections, and finally the anesthesia mask. It was used during major heart surgery, or heart transplants, as well as brain operations. The fear the gripped Mark Ryan, the first year anesthesiologist could be felt through the room, as he saw in the corner of his eye the levels of sedation shifting.

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The boy opened his eyes. He had no faint semblance of an idea of where he was, all he knew was his feet were wet. He looked downward to see himself standing in a pool of water, but it wasn’t water at all. It was a white liquid that seemed to part as he moved, conforming to his motion. He slowly walked across the endless plain of liquid. His eyes followed the horizon, until he saw it. It was grey, and massive. Its façade decorated with enormous sculptures and copper embroideries. The tower. He approached it, not registering anything that had happened in his life, simply this moment. His steps were light, and slow, careful. His fingers stretched outward, and he desperately tried to move faster. He stopped, and bent over to retrieve something. A sea shell. It was white, and spiraled downward in a brilliant maze of sparkles. He held it in his hand. Then he dropped it into the pocket of his hospital gown. He began his approach again, fighting the sense that he would fall over. Then it came, the noise, the deafening noise. It was high pitched, and repetitive, it came over and over like a shrill call in the emptiness of his existence. His eyes squinted, and then like a horrible nightmare, his reality shattered. The corners of his perception began to shake, and his vision crumbled in a mass of light. Suddenly memories began to rush back in as his consciousness went from one realm to another, lost. He then awoke. The ICU was nauseating. His chest was covered in gauze, and stained orange with pungent iodine. The searing pain that traveled from his belly button to his neck seemed to cripple him. People talked and huddled over him, an army of IV’s standing at attention at his flanks. All he could manage was to lift his hand up, his thumb held tight by the EKG node. Then, the room fell silent. The boy couldn’t fully understand the silence, as his vision was still blurry and adjusting. The room was silent, as the strangers that surrounded him came into focus, he saw their faces. Awe. Eyes widened, jaws hanging open. There, shattered on the floor were the wet remains of a seashell, spread across the hard tiled floor.

Interesting read, i like your writing style i must say. Ill be sure to read part 2 too