Surreal Ecstasy (6 page)

I sat up and yanked violently at
his jeans, thinking only of the massive, hot bulk contained inside. I needed to
get his jeans off
now
, needed to feel his-

I opened my eyes, then cursed a
hundredfold like a sailor. I was still in my cardboard bed.

Thanks for nothing, half-assed
fantasy.

That was my third hospital dream,
and suddenly, the line that divided dreaming and living almost disappeared. I
desired more than anything to go back to sleep and see how that dream played
out, to travel back to that land of pleasure and forget about reality. I looked
up at the ceiling, trying to recall the man's face. Was that Friend in my
dream, Adim, Dess' husband, or someone else? I tried to remember, but kept
hitting maddening mental roadblocks.

It didn't feel like it was Adim in
my dream, and I mean that not because of the way his body felt, but in the
manner of sex in my dream. Never had any of Adim's moves been romantic or
patient. There were no smiles or whispers of love to transform what we did into
lovemaking. No, what we did was fucking, and there was no fulfillment or joy in
it, making me think that he would have the same experience with any woman.
Lovemaking should be exclusive, exciting because pure love and amazing sex
combined would be an ultimate experience, one like no other, something that
could never be replicated again except with the unique, exact combination of
these two people together, because they think alike, move alike, love alike.

I've grown tired of the shallow
world of drugs and pointless sex. I had loved Adim, but obviously not enough,
because I was thinking of life without him, without his unpredictable temper,
without his vices and dependencies.

Without his abuse.

I decided then and there that the
next time I do something so intimate, it should come from something more
substantial than just two people satisfying their passing urges. And if it wasn't
intended to happen, if
he
, the perfect man, was not out there, then I
simply wouldn't ever have sex again. This degradation of my soul had to stop.
This disbursement of my life's energy for shallow, fleeting things had to stop.
I had tried this wretched lifestyle, and it brought me no happiness or sense of
well-being. It had only brought chaos, sadness, confusion, and ire.

I yawned loudly and tried to get
comfortable curled up on my right side, feeling a slight pull as I almost got
out-of-bounds with the connected IV. Sighing, I rolled an inch or so back to
the left. Maybe if I went to sleep right away, I would finish that sexy dream,
or maybe Brad Pitt would enter my dream, sandy brown chin-length hair blowing
in the wind, lying next to me on a European nudist beach…

"I'm going to miss you,
Morgan."

When did I fall asleep? I couldn't
remember, but I was definitely dreaming. Racking my brain in trying to remember
something about the mundane world, I realized this was my fourth hospital
dream.

"Friend? What do you mean?"
I looked around and saw nothing. This certainly wasn't a European nudist beach,
and Brad Pitt was most certainly
not
lying on a blanket next to me,
waiting for me to return to his arms. It was like I was hiding in a closet.
There was nothing visible at all, but I was able to hear Friend's voice as
clear as day.

"First things first. I want
you to create a place for us to talk. Let's go to your mind room."

I must have twisted my face into
the ultimate statue of confusion with the way Friend responded to me. I didn't
know how he could possibly see me in this pitch-black, but I had a feeling he
could and did. "The place where you keep all your thoughts and memories.
It's not a physical room but a place you can enter while in your dream-state.
It's normally only for you, but I can go in there, just this once, if you
recreate it now and invite me."

"Mind room? How can I—"

"Relax and breathe. Think of
finding old memories of when you started to work at Crafts Market, or when your
mother took you to the dentist for the first time. You'll get the feeling of a
room. Let it come. Let it materialize around you, around us."

Before I knew it, I was standing in
the middle of what looked like a huge living room in a fancy mansion. It didn't
look familiar at all, yet I felt like it was a home of sorts, not only as if I'd
been there before but that I kept coming back to it. I took a few steps in the
middle of the giant area rug and saw that huge bookshelves were arranged neatly
in the room, like a library or a bookstore. I walked around a few of the
shelves and saw that one of them had a sign at the top that had "MOM"
written on it. Curious, I went over to it and picked up a manila folder that
was on one of the shelves. In the folder was a piece of paper that outlined a
memory of my mother driving me to school when I was a teenager.

Confused, I put it back and
wandered around some more, feeling like a tourist in my own mind room.

"Enjoying yourself?"

I looked around to see Friend
leaning up casually against a nearby shelf. I saw him and smiled, telling him I
was puzzled yet fascinated. I didn't know mind rooms existed. He explained to
me that I most definitely knew they existed, but it wasn't conscious knowledge.
There was a small wing of the mind room that didn't seem as well-lit as the
rest. I began to walk over to it, then halted. A big picture of Adim graced the
wall of the little wing, and next to it were knives and swords, one knife even
stuck in the middle of the forehead of Adim's picture. That displayed my mixed
feelings about him, I supposed.

I didn't want to go there. I knew
what kinds of things were on those shelves. How could I not? I'd been reviewing
them for months, thinking about him even when I didn't want to.

In fact, I knew everything that was
there—every single piece of paper. It was
my
mind room. I searched for
Friend and found him about ten feet away, looking at everything politely
without picking up or reading any of my personal files. "Morgan," he
said, his voice taking on an official tone that I'd never heard from him, "You
have a talent that you must be made aware of."

"Oh, you mean the talent I
have for making the worst possible decisions?" I blurted before I could
think.

He frowned a little and continued. "The
God Generation is going to make themselves known to you soon. I wanted to
prepare you. You're not of the GG, not exactly, but you're an important asset
to one of the teams. You're a human helper, and you'll be known as the
Architect."

"The God what? Architect what?
I don't know anything about construction."

Friend shook his head. "I don't
mean that literally," he commented gently. He gestured grandly toward the
shelves behind him. "You've made a beautiful mind room. Many people out
there aren't aware that they even have one, and some need help organizing or
even constructing one that fits their needs. You have that ability. You've
always had that ability.

"The God Generation. Don't
forget that term. Hold your hands to a person's head and focus like you did a
few minutes ago, and you'll be able to organize their room. You'd be surprised
how much this will be able to help people. It'll be a strange journey, but you'll
be okay if you keep your wits about you. When you open your eyes, remember the
God Generation."

"But why did you say you were
going to miss me?"

He sighed quietly and pondered a
bit before answering. "This may be the last time I stand here with you. It's
been a pleasure, Morgan," he said bowing.

"No! I don't want you to
leave! You've been my only friend ever since I was a—"

"I know, Morgan. I know. But
things are changing. Morgan, I want you to welcome her into your life. She's a
true jewel, albeit somewhat unorthodox."

"What? Who? Friend, wait!"

My eyes opened, and in an
anticlimactic instant, I was lying in my cardboard bed.

I pulled the blanket up to my neck
and considered what just happened. My imaginary friend, who claimed to be an
angel, pretty much broke up with me, saying he would never see me again. The
other things he said lingered in my mind, but I didn't dwell on them. I'd have
to think about those other things later. Or maybe I could fall asleep again and
hope he'd come back and clarify things.

But before I could even think about
closing my eyes again, Erica walked in my hospital room.

Erica was one of the nurses I'd
come to know well during my three-night stay at this 'fabulous' resort. She had
been here a day or two earlier to (finally) give me the details of how I got
there. A married couple who lived on the floor beneath me heard the racket and
me screaming a couple times (I don't recall screaming twice, but I wasn't
completely sane at the time either), and promptly dialed 911. Screaming is not
something generally heard in Lynnwood, not unless you live near a raving, naked
lunatic who cut herself because a friend-of-a-friend bitch posted a fake
picture of her being slutty. Supposedly, the police came and Ethan, the on-site
manager, opened my door for them so they wouldn't have to break it down. They
found me and called an ambulance to bring me in. I tried not to think of
unknown men in my apartment, looking at my naked, unconscious body. Well, I
wasn't entirely naked, I suppose. I had been wearing ribbons of blood.

"Hi, Morgan! How are we
feeling today?" Erica was a curvy, petite platinum blonde with blue eyes.
If nurses still wore those short, white, old-school uniforms, she'd have
patients
and
doctors following her around everywhere. Hell, she probably
already did, despite the ugly scrubs modern nurses had to wear. Erica was
perky. Erica was happy. And Erica was annoying. Despite all that, however, I
liked her. Sort of.

I let her know that 'we' were
feeling fine and that I had just been sleeping, and wanted to continue that
activity. I thought that was a pretty obvious hint, but apparently being perky
and happy doesn't come with an abundance of brain cells, because she just
continued rattling on and on. She checked my IV and chart, saying, "Remember
how we talked about you getting released soon?" I started to nod but saw
that she was already continuing without any further sign from me, so I stayed
silent and still. "Well, great news! We will probably release you in a few
days because you're doing very, very well. I do wish you decided to eat more of
your dinner last night, but I'll let that slide, because everything else about
your body is saying it wants to get better."

I
did wish she would be
quiet for 30 seconds so that I could tell her that unseasoned slices of turkey
topped with mushy croutons served atop gel-like gravy do
not
a dinner
make. She was already moving onto her next topic, however.

"Morgan, Dr. Hirsch is here to
see you for a moment." I peered toward the door and saw a man standing in
the hallway. He was wearing a dress shirt and tie. Erica followed my eyes and
nodded. "He just wants to talk to you. He's a clinical psychiatrist,"
she added apologetically.

Just great.

"Don't be too concerned,"
Erica reassured me after seeing my expression. "Dr. Hirsch is a nice guy.
And fun to party with," she added with a mischievous grin.

I really didn't need to know that.

Erica let the doctor in, closing
the door behind her as she left. Groaning inwardly, I faced him with as much
guilt as a delinquent teen at the principal's office.

"Hi, Morgan," he said
gently. He was in his late forties and had dark, close-cropped hair. Not bad
looking, actually.

Wow. I really had to finish that
sexy dream before I attacked the next man I saw. I mean, the psychiatrist was
decent-looking but not gorgeous, or even unique in a way that would made him
stand out. Erica parties with
him
? Out of all the choices she
undoubtedly had? This was a strange, strange world.

"Ms. Constantina—Morgan. May I
call you Morgan? My name is Dr. Drake Hirsch. I'm just here to talk to you and
make sure you're all right, okay?"

He stopped, and after a couple
seconds I realized he was waiting for me to answer. That was weird, especially
after 'conversing' with a Ms. Talk-a-lot like Erica. I tried to imagine Erica
sprawled on her back with this guy lounged on top of her, thrusting his hips in
and out of her.

Ew.

"Sure," I heard myself
say. The sound of my own voice was odd to me. I thought back to Friday night
when I'd laughed and didn't recognize that sound, either. These things were
probably significant for some reason, but I currently didn't know or care why.

He clasped his hands together in
front of him. "Morgan, you lost a lot of blood. They say it was from a
kitchen knife." He paused, his eyes shifting a bit, and I wondered if he
was uncomfortable discussing this. Well, if he was, he shouldn't have become a
psychiatrist. "Would you like to tell me why you cut yourself?"

I exhaled a breath I didn't know I
was holding. I looked up at the ceiling and tried to figure out two things.
First, did I want to go into gory detail about my pathetic life? And two, supposing
I did, how would I even begin telling him about it, with its complexities and
long explanations of my stupid life?

He tried again. "Morgan, I
know you're not a child, and I don't want to make you feel like you are. But I
know there is something that's bothering you, and I would like to help you with
that. You and I may have to spend a lot of time together, because many people
are worried about you."

"There isn't anybody worried
about me," I said before I could think. Damn. Stupid headshrinkers and their
psychology bullshit.

To my surprise, he didn't wear a
satisfied 'gotcha' grin. He didn't even miss a beat. "Why would you say
that, Morgan?"

I bit my lip and decided that,
since I was an idiot and talked already, I had to continue full-force. "Because…
because it's true. Don't get me started about my mother."