Those wise to a fault see more than they care to conceive; a sponge so saturated and uncaring to expand that it remains in a permanent state of stagnancy.
.
.
.
“How does he look?”
“Not good. It doesn’t seem like he’ll wake up any time soon.”
A faint whimper follows after, and I yearn to learn of my surroundings. This effort is in vain, however, for it seems like my eyelids are too fatigued to open, and my body is in the same condition. A rush of panic flows through me as I try to move; at this point even bending a single finger would assuage my fears. The endeavor’s result is the same as before, and I instead decide to identify the speakers by listening to their voices.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything we can do?”
This one is recognizable. There is no mistaking my mother’s soft determined tone, present even in the midst of a crisis. “Any sort of medication?”
“Not any more than what he’s on right now.” There’s a rustling of paper and the conversation resumes. “For now, all we can do is wait. I do need a full account of what happened, however.”
“All we know is that he hit his head in the creek.” This time my father spoke, his voice considerably less commanding. It has a sort of meekness to it which outright compromises his usual front of unwavering courage.
“You mean Hubris Creek?”
Hubris Creek. The name sounds vaguely familiar, though I can’t quite place its location or relation to me. Hubris…Hubris… Of course! I recall fragments of a memory, feeling more like a dream than reality, though they allow me to get a sense of the current events. I am situated in a hospital room, where my parents are speaking to the doctor. Slightly pleased by my deduction, I realize there is still an important question lingering in my mind. How did I end up in this predicament in the first place?
I cannot dwell on the thought for long, since the doctor soon begins to talk once more. “Could you possibly give me any more details?”
“I’m afraid my younger daughter, Catherine, was the only one to witness it. She’s still too shaken up to tell us what happened.”
Catherine is my little sister, a lively girl aged only eight. She takes pleasure in the smallest of wonders, and her open acceptance of most everyone mystifies me to no end. Despite having seven years over her, I sometimes feel she may just know more than I do. As a fresh batch of memories spring up, I conclude this fact is what led me to this hospital bed.
.
.
.
The day was alive, abuzz with the cacophony of cicadas and the constant chirping of cardinals. Catherine was out in the backyard engaged in her newfound pastime of exploring the area. She had become obsessed with a new show called Adventurer, hosted by Holly, a woman possessing the mind of a five year old and an imagination to match. She goes about her backyard finding “interesting” things, like a blooming flower or an insect. How the producers are able to keep the show going is beyond me, but Catherine had seen enough to completely idolize her.
She was now waving wildly, urging me to come out and see whatever it was she found. With a heavy sigh, I stood up and obeyed her command. “Aaron, Aaron! Look at this!” She squatted down and pointed to a large caterpillar attempting to climb up a daffodil.
“Is that all?” I questioned, my voice filled with the disinterest I had for the anticlimactic discovery. Catherine pouted and crossed her arms, her way of saying she was exasperated with me, as well.
“I bet Holly would be proud of me,” she claimed, referring to the Adventurer host. “She understands.” I rolled my eyes and turned to leave, but for some reason I stayed.
.
.
.
The rest of the scene is fuzzy, and I am unable to continue, but as I focus on the conversation going on around me, I realize my father has succeeded in coaxing the story out of Catherine. She begins in a tiny, cracking voice, and it is clear she has shed more than few tears. At the point she where mentions Adventurer, I can hear tones of distaste hidden under those of sorrow. Her prior admiration is replaced with unsettling contempt.
“I told him about Holly, and he said he could do something much better than what she does, something amazing that would take a lot of courage.” She speaks in almost a whisper, and combined with her slurred pronunciations, it is nearly impossible to decipher her speech.
“He decided to climb the big tree near the creek,” she continues after a prolonged silence. “And so we went into the forest.”
.
.
.
The thriving trees’ emerald leaves melded together to form a natural canopy above our heads, an organic barrier which even the most persistent sunlight could not penetrate. There was no time to stop and admire the lush greenery around us, or worry about what could be lurking in the dark foliage, invisible to the naked eye. I hadn’t realized it then, but before this Holly character came along, I had been my sister’s role model, and despite the constant annoyance which came from the role, it was a comfortable position to be in. Having it swiped away by a woman who seriously needed a lesson in growing up was less than pleasing, and I wanted nothing more than to put that gleam of reverence for me back into Catherine’s eye. I was the older sibling, after all.
I knew we were nearing the creek when a bush of blood red roses came into view. As usual, Catherine slowed down to gaze at the flowers; she was thoroughly awestruck by their vivid hues and sweet scent. Today I had no tolerance for it and quickly pulled her along with me until we reached our destination.
“Here we are,” she declared, looking back longingly at the roses. “Let’s get this over with fast.”
I nodded and began my steady ascent of the tree. The said plant had been there for as long I can remember; it was rather large even in my parents’ youth. The tree was growing right over the creek, with one branch extending further out than the rest. Checking back every couple seconds, I pushed myself up from branch to branch until the top was in sight. “Almost there,” I murmured, willing my exhausted arms to grab onto the next branch.
.
.
.
What occurred next still remains a mystery to me. Whether it was from my weight pressing down on the tree, or merely missing the branch, I’d somehow fallen into the creek and hit my head on the rocks. According to Catherine, the water around me became as red as the roses nearby, and it soon became a dimmer shade as the water diluted it. She couldn’t build up the courage to come any closer and had run as fast as she could to fetch my parents.
Which leads me to my current condition, this bedridden state of helplessness. The doctor and my family are still discussing the accident, but suddenly I find it difficult to hear them.
In the small period of time, I’ve come to a few disconcerting realizations. Pride was a monster devoid of satisfaction no matter how many victories it has gained or the losses it feeds off. The ephemeral satisfaction of impressing my sister was too irresistible spur of the moment, but given the opportunity, there’s no doubt that I would stop myself from proposing something so utterly foolish.
The notion of not assessing the possible consequences completely went against my usual cautious nature. The green eye of envy had gotten the better of me, and it is only now that I take my parents’ feelings into account, their worry. I can barely even begin to comprehend my sister’s state. How must it feel to stand by and watch as your brother falls into oblivion? What grief overpowers her senses, or the possible guilt that may spur from this? I want to assure her that none of this was caused by her, because that is surely how she must feel. After all this is over, I will tell her we could blame it all upon Adventurer Holly and everything would return to normal.
'If this is over', a tiny condescending voice calls out in my head. 'Who knows? You could be in a coma forever!' I want to deny the voice’s statement, tell it that I will wake up. But I soon realize it is my own self who is predicting such a fate.
I wish I could cry and scream and yell, fill this forsaken emptiness with sounds to ascertain my existence and shatter the barriers of loneliness.
But there is only silence.
I am caught under an intangible shroud, my voice whipped away to leave hollow expressions conveying no emotions. I had once been the wise, now rendered the fool.
.
.
.
“How does he look?”
“Not good. It doesn’t seem like he’ll wake up any time soon.”
A faint whimper follows after, and I yearn to learn of my surroundings. This effort is in vain, however, for it seems like my eyelids are too fatigued to open, and my body is in the same condition. A rush of panic flows through me as I try to move; at this point even bending a single finger would assuage my fears. The endeavor’s result is the same as before, and I instead decide to identify the speakers by listening to their voices.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything we can do?”
This one is recognizable. There is no mistaking my mother’s soft determined tone, present even in the midst of a crisis. “Any sort of medication?”
“Not any more than what he’s on right now.” There’s a rustling of paper and the conversation resumes. “For now, all we can do is wait. I do need a full account of what happened, however.”
“All we know is that he hit his head in the creek.” This time my father spoke, his voice considerably less commanding. It has a sort of meekness to it which outright compromises his usual front of unwavering courage.
“You mean Hubris Creek?”
Hubris Creek. The name sounds vaguely familiar, though I can’t quite place its location or relation to me. Hubris…Hubris… Of course! I recall fragments of a memory, feeling more like a dream than reality, though they allow me to get a sense of the current events. I am situated in a hospital room, where my parents are speaking to the doctor. Slightly pleased by my deduction, I realize there is still an important question lingering in my mind. How did I end up in this predicament in the first place?
I cannot dwell on the thought for long, since the doctor soon begins to talk once more. “Could you possibly give me any more details?”
“I’m afraid my younger daughter, Catherine, was the only one to witness it. She’s still too shaken up to tell us what happened.”
Catherine is my little sister, a lively girl aged only eight. She takes pleasure in the smallest of wonders, and her open acceptance of most everyone mystifies me to no end. Despite having seven years over her, I sometimes feel she may just know more than I do. As a fresh batch of memories spring up, I conclude this fact is what led me to this hospital bed.
.
.
.
The day was alive, abuzz with the cacophony of cicadas and the constant chirping of cardinals. Catherine was out in the backyard engaged in her newfound pastime of exploring the area. She had become obsessed with a new show called Adventurer, hosted by Holly, a woman possessing the mind of a five year old and an imagination to match. She goes about her backyard finding “interesting” things, like a blooming flower or an insect. How the producers are able to keep the show going is beyond me, but Catherine had seen enough to completely idolize her.
She was now waving wildly, urging me to come out and see whatever it was she found. With a heavy sigh, I stood up and obeyed her command. “Aaron, Aaron! Look at this!” She squatted down and pointed to a large caterpillar attempting to climb up a daffodil.
“Is that all?” I questioned, my voice filled with the disinterest I had for the anticlimactic discovery. Catherine pouted and crossed her arms, her way of saying she was exasperated with me, as well.
“I bet Holly would be proud of me,” she claimed, referring to the Adventurer host. “She understands.” I rolled my eyes and turned to leave, but for some reason I stayed.
.
.
.
The rest of the scene is fuzzy, and I am unable to continue, but as I focus on the conversation going on around me, I realize my father has succeeded in coaxing the story out of Catherine. She begins in a tiny, cracking voice, and it is clear she has shed more than few tears. At the point she where mentions Adventurer, I can hear tones of distaste hidden under those of sorrow. Her prior admiration is replaced with unsettling contempt.
“I told him about Holly, and he said he could do something much better than what she does, something amazing that would take a lot of courage.” She speaks in almost a whisper, and combined with her slurred pronunciations, it is nearly impossible to decipher her speech.
“He decided to climb the big tree near the creek,” she continues after a prolonged silence. “And so we went into the forest.”
.
.
.
The thriving trees’ emerald leaves melded together to form a natural canopy above our heads, an organic barrier which even the most persistent sunlight could not penetrate. There was no time to stop and admire the lush greenery around us, or worry about what could be lurking in the dark foliage, invisible to the naked eye. I hadn’t realized it then, but before this Holly character came along, I had been my sister’s role model, and despite the constant annoyance which came from the role, it was a comfortable position to be in. Having it swiped away by a woman who seriously needed a lesson in growing up was less than pleasing, and I wanted nothing more than to put that gleam of reverence for me back into Catherine’s eye. I was the older sibling, after all.
I knew we were nearing the creek when a bush of blood red roses came into view. As usual, Catherine slowed down to gaze at the flowers; she was thoroughly awestruck by their vivid hues and sweet scent. Today I had no tolerance for it and quickly pulled her along with me until we reached our destination.
“Here we are,” she declared, looking back longingly at the roses. “Let’s get this over with fast.”
I nodded and began my steady ascent of the tree. The said plant had been there for as long I can remember; it was rather large even in my parents’ youth. The tree was growing right over the creek, with one branch extending further out than the rest. Checking back every couple seconds, I pushed myself up from branch to branch until the top was in sight. “Almost there,” I murmured, willing my exhausted arms to grab onto the next branch.
.
.
.
What occurred next still remains a mystery to me. Whether it was from my weight pressing down on the tree, or merely missing the branch, I’d somehow fallen into the creek and hit my head on the rocks. According to Catherine, the water around me became as red as the roses nearby, and it soon became a dimmer shade as the water diluted it. She couldn’t build up the courage to come any closer and had run as fast as she could to fetch my parents.
Which leads me to my current condition, this bedridden state of helplessness. The doctor and my family are still discussing the accident, but suddenly I find it difficult to hear them.
In the small period of time, I’ve come to a few disconcerting realizations. Pride was a monster devoid of satisfaction no matter how many victories it has gained or the losses it feeds off. The ephemeral satisfaction of impressing my sister was too irresistible spur of the moment, but given the opportunity, there’s no doubt that I would stop myself from proposing something so utterly foolish.
The notion of not assessing the possible consequences completely went against my usual cautious nature. The green eye of envy had gotten the better of me, and it is only now that I take my parents’ feelings into account, their worry. I can barely even begin to comprehend my sister’s state. How must it feel to stand by and watch as your brother falls into oblivion? What grief overpowers her senses, or the possible guilt that may spur from this? I want to assure her that none of this was caused by her, because that is surely how she must feel. After all this is over, I will tell her we could blame it all upon Adventurer Holly and everything would return to normal.
'If this is over', a tiny condescending voice calls out in my head. 'Who knows? You could be in a coma forever!' I want to deny the voice’s statement, tell it that I will wake up. But I soon realize it is my own self who is predicting such a fate.
I wish I could cry and scream and yell, fill this forsaken emptiness with sounds to ascertain my existence and shatter the barriers of loneliness.
But there is only silence.
I am caught under an intangible shroud, my voice whipped away to leave hollow expressions conveying no emotions. I had once been the wise, now rendered the fool.
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