It's Not Easy Being Green: Chapter 1

It's Not Easy Being Green
Chapter 1

         I've been dying. It's been nearly twenty birthdays. I've only got a few more birthdays to go. That's what they tell me, anyway. I live in my room. It's a nice room, with bright green walls. That's my favorite color. Every birthday since I've been here, I've gotten a new green gift. There's lots of green gifts in my room. It's been many, many birthdays. So there's lots of green things in my room. My typewriter, this typewriter, is like my best friend. I've had it since I was little, which was a long time ago. Too long ago to remember, but I like to remember anyway. I remember how it was, how it used to be, before...well, never mind. My typewriter has been everywhere with me. It's my best friend.

         I used to have a real best friend, like a human one. His name was Robby. When I was about ten, he lived on my street back in Boulder Hill, Illinois. I went to school with him, we did everything together. Heck, he was even my best man in my wedding when I was twenty-six. I miss him like crazy sometimes, but then I remember where he is, and then I don't miss him so much anymore. He had dark hair, darker than nighttime, and blue eyes. The girls at our high school went nuts over him. I didn't get it, he was really immature, but hey, we all were back then. That was a long time ago. Too long to remember, but I like to remember anyway.

         Robby got married, a few years after I did, to his Sarah, one of our best friends. She was a great gal, and she loved him to death. He loved her too. They were perfect for each other. Ellie and I were really close with them, that is before...well, never mind.

         My memory blocks out right around when I was thirty. From when I was thirty until I was thirty-five, the memories are lost. They say it's because of the explosion, and my disease. I tell them they're crazy, and it's just because I'm getting old. Maybe I just need to clean out my room, I say. I bet I'll find my memories from when I was thirty to thirty-five in there, in that heap of green in my closet. My last memory isn't pleasant, so I pretend it doesn't exist. I like to try to trick my brain into thinking that my last memory is of Ellie, kissing me goodbye, her belly full with our baby on the way, seven months pregnant. Yes, that's my last memory. That's what I tell myself.

         It seems like that was forever ago. After the war, things changed. I'm different. They tell me I'm going to die. In twenty-two years, they say. They say I have a disease. Ellie's gone. Robby's gone. All that there is...is me, and my green room, and my typewriter. That's all that's left. That was twenty years ago, twenty birthdays ago. Before the war... That was a long time ago. Too long to remember, but I like to remember anyway. 

~  ~  ~

         My eyes fly open. I just had another one of my nightmares. It's the scary one, the one that I think comes from the years my brain has decided to block without my permission. My face is dripping with sweat, and my covers are all in disarray from a restless night of dreaming. My breathing is quick, shallow, but a relief. I'm just glad that I'm still breathing. Not being able to breathe is the scariest feeling I've ever known, and I've only had to feel it one time.

         A nurse, her name is Mattie, walks in my green room.

         "Hello, Mr. O'Connell, how are you this morning?" Mattie asks, a fake smile on her face.

         "A l-l-little sh-shaken," I stutter, my eyes still wide with fear.

         "Did you have another one of your nightmares?" she says, a concerned look replacing her fake smile.

         "Yeah, I did."

         "Let me get Doctor Larsen, you must be due for your treatment again."

         It had been five months since my last treatment. I know because I counted. I always count the months in-between my treatments. The longer they get, the better I'm getting. That's what they tell me, anyway. Sometimes I'm not so sure. Their fake smiles tell me I'm right.

         Doctor Larsen walks in my room, approximately five minutes after Mattie's departure. He gives me the same fake smile Mattie did, and I give him only a real frown back.

         "Hellooo, Mr. O'Connell," he says. "I understand you had another nightmare?"          

         "Yes, sir."

         "Well, can you tell me about it?"

         "I'd prefer not to."          

         "Mr. O'Connell, you know that if you don't tell me I can't proceed with your treatment. If I can't proceed with your treatment, you don't get better. Now, please, tell me your dream." 

         "I told you, Doc, I'd prefer not to."

         "Why is that, Mr. O'Connell?"

         "Because I don't want my treatment."

         He was silent for a moment, a rare occurrence.

         "Well, Mr. O'Connell. This is the first time we've had trouble with you this way. Is there something wrong?"

         I looked to the spot on my ceiling where a water-stain was forming. Yes, I thought. I want to get out of here.

         Instead, though, I just gave him a forced toothless smile.

         "No, there's nothing wrong, Doc."

         "Then tell me what your dream was."

         "No."

         "But, Mr. O'Connell-"

         "No."

         His fake smile disappeared. His voice changed from cheery to deathly serious.

         "Mr. O'Connell. I'm afraid we're going to have to give you your treatment whether you like it or not. I'll give you one more chance. Tell me your dream."

         I hesitated, a thought of giving in to his plea taking root. I quickly threw it away.

         "No."

         A growl sputtered in his throat. He stopped himself, almost before I could notice. But I did notice.

         "Very well. I will be back later. We will do your treatment."

         I was confused. I thought he couldn't do my treatment without the information on my dream.

         "But why?" I asked, my eyebrows furrowed.

         He grinned.

         "Because we must."

         I was still confused.

         "But...why?"

         "No further questions, Mr. O'Connell. Goodbye, Mattie will be back with your lunch later."

         And as efficiently as he had come in, he exited my green room, closing the door and locking it behind him.

         I dismissed the fright that appeared in my brain as I thought of having treatment done again. I would not have treatment, I told myself.

         I glanced around my green room. The walls shimmered green. There were no windows. The door was locked. There appeared to be no escape. I slowly got up out of bed, trying not to make a noise. If I clunked around with clumsy feet, one of the nurses would come running, asking what I was doing, why I was out of bed, and for heaven's sake, get back in bed before I had a heart attack. I laughed at this thought. I'd kept myself strong, pacing my room silently at least twenty times a day. I made a mark on my green notepad in green pen to signify a day passing. 7,302 days.

         I padded over to my closet. I pushed the green curtain aside, making my way to the back. I found the little crack in the wall, the only slight possibility of the existence of the outside world. I grabbed my green metal stick I'd taken from the old green lamp in the corner. The nurses hadn't noticed I'd taken it off. I was lucky. They wouldn't have been happy. I knew this from experience. I scraped off silently another shaving of wall from the crack. I knew I was one shaving closer to escape. I scraped another, and another, and another. I scraped for hours. I checked my green watch on my wrist. It was approximately eleven twelve and eighteen seconds. Darn it, I thought. I missed it. Every day, at eleven eleven, I made a wish. There were few days I missed it. I was so concentrated on scraping that I'd forgotten to check my watch. It didn't faze me, however, because I knew that there was always tomorrow. Always. Until, that is, well...never mind.   

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Word Count:
1,397 words.