The Beginning of the End

*Caution: Don't read this if you want to wait and read everything in order, because this alludes to a lot that hasn't been written down yet. As the title says, this is the beginning of the very last part of the story and a lot of what Heather thinks of hasn't happened where I stopped updating the story. I'm not even sure of what really is going to happen yet, I just have a few vague ideas.*


"The dream swept through me like the vague idea of an answer in the middle of an unstudied for exam. Just as I reached out to pull it close to my body to savor under the warmth of the covers and the night, it wisped out of my grasp and out of my memory. Tiny bits of the good parts danced merrily just out of my reach, taunting with the joy of forgotten happiness. That’s all I feel like I’m living here: forgotten happiness. Even the walls seem to tease me with the faint color that was once there, but has since been replaced with the pristine whiteness of this foul smelling hospital. Oldness and the smell of disinfectant drifts past, permeating everything and leaving no corner untouched. The stale air circles around me threatening to take away the little bit of breath that comes in without the gray cloud of haze that fogs my brain. It doesn’t seem clean. I can’t see any dust or dirt from my seat on the covers of my blue non-descript blanket in the middle of my bed, but I don’t need to see it. I feel it. This place feels dirty. I feel dirty as I wipe the warm sweat from my nap off my brow and wipe it on the ugly blanket. Maybe I can convince someone to help me get in the shower or get me some real blankets, at least, if I have to stay in this half-open hospital gown for the rest of the week.

I hate having to stay here. The pale sterile light and the harshness of the room do nothing to soften the reality of this base hospital. The fake structured sunlight through the bland gray Venetian blinds isn’t helping to make me feel better either. How is anyone supposed to get better when this whole place reeks of sickness? Maybe that’s it. I’ll hate this place so bad I’ll want to get better just to get out. Maybe . . . well, not if they keep trying to stuff these mushy, puke-colored piles of gunk down my throat.

It’s almost as if the only thing that keeps me from taking their stupid pills and slipping into oblivion is the thought that maybe I haven’t forgotten or imagined all this. That maybe all I need is to remember everything that happened to put me here in the first place. They can’t exactly cover up an entire war, whether or not they want to believe that eight soldiers saved their world. No more lies or half-dancing around the truth because reality whether reality wants to believe me or not, it happened. They’re all gone. Well, maybe not one, but he soon as well be for all his frozen mind believes. But at least he’s not lying to himself like I have been. They lie for him, and he takes it, and maybe he’s happy. Maybe. . .but I’m not. Maybe someday someone will find this and know. Perhaps that’s my hope in putting this down on paper. That someone will read it and believe me. I know it happened. Every word. . .because I lived it. This was my story. . .no, this was OUR story. . ."

Heather closed the notebook and set it and the pen down on the tiny bedside table. A plastic cup and a glass of water sat right in the middle of it's flimsy surface. She sighed sadly and picked up the glass. Maybe she could make it all go away and still remember his face. She picked up the plastic cup and stared at the tiny white pill. . .it was plain lke every thing else aroung her. She closed her eyes and took a sip of the water, then carefully set down the glass, dropping the plastic cup on the floor. "Memories don't keep you warm at night," she sighed leaning back against her pillows and closing her eyes once more. "I did it for you, Joshua. I finished it for you. Mission: Complete."