Finding Technicolour

  Finding Technicolour

  Rebecca Rose

  The Peacock Pen

  Melbourne

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  First published in Australia 2017 by The Peacock Pen

  Copyright © Rebecca Rose Methley 2017

  Cover Design by Aimee Coveney, bookollective.com

  The right of Rebecca Rose Methley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Australian Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book, in whole or in part, may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  A CiP catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

  ISBN 978-0-6480377-0-5 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-0-6480377-1-2 (eBook)

  Contents

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  Chapter TWENTY-SIX

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  Chapter THIRTY

  Chapter THIRTY-ONE

  Chapter THIRTY-TWO

  Chapter THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  Chapter THIRTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that.

  Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.”

  – Martin Luther King

  What’s the point of painting on a page that is stained?

  Chapter ONE

  Two weeks ago I almost died. That’s what I overheard the doctor tell my mum. Mum sobbed loudly, so I couldn’t hear the rest. I gave up eavesdropping. I didn’t remember falling back asleep. I did, though, because Mum greeted me with tears and kisses as I woke. Those days I couldn’t recall time. The past couple of weeks had been a bit of a blur. A coma will do that to you.

  I fell in and out of sleep and didn’t know how long I’d been captured in my sleep spells. I’d wake feeling like an amnesiac, but before I could question my circumstance my eyelids weighed me down. I’d fall into what I can only describe as darkness. Pitch black. Almost serenity. I didn’t know where I went when I went there, but my body wanted me to go. My mind wanted me to. Sometimes I felt myself crave it. I felt better when I was there. Plus, I didn’t like the hospital lights.

  I didn’t want to see the light.

  I opened my eyes and half expected to see Mum gazing over me, her cheeks stained with tears. That’s what I’d seen every day for the past week – since I’d been awake. But that day I saw my brother, Liam. He looked at me like it was the last time he’d ever see me, as if a secret goodbye swirled deep within his irises. The skin around his eyes was red, like they’d just been roughly wiped. Had he been crying? Our eyes locked. My mind went blank. I didn’t know how to feel. His ocean-blue eyes made it seem that I might drown if I looked into them too long. But I continued to stare.

  Silent seconds passed. His glimpse of goodbye vanished and a smile stretched across his face. My feeling of drowning expired. I didn’t know why, but I was disappointed.

  “Hey … Peyton, how you feeling today?”

  I wanted to speak, but the lump in my throat got in the way. The words were stuck between my gums and teeth. My mouth felt bone dry. I glanced to my bedside table. My brother grabbed the glass of water and positioned the straw in my mouth. I took several sips then licked my lips. A tingle of pain materialised. It came and went so fast that I ignored it.

  I thought about Liam’s question, cleared my throat and spoke. “I’m OK …” My voice was hoarse.

  I didn’t know if I was OK though – isn’t that what we say to stop people questioning us further? Isn’t that the answer we give so we don’t burden others with our troubles? It’s what we say to move on to the next thing.

  Was I OK? I didn’t even know what had happened. Why had I been in an induced coma? It had been a little over a week since I’d woken and my question hadn’t been answered. When I woke, I’d try to piece things together. Every time I opened my eyes, I’d try to remember something new. I’d lock it away somewhere in my mind and hope the puzzle would become clear.

  But it hadn’t.

  A heavy rush rumbled through my entire body. My mind throbbed. It felt like I was caught in a riptide. I closed my eyes. Forced my lungs to draw deeper.

  “P, are you OK?”

  Liam’s worried words made a stone form in my chest. It weighed heavier with each breath. I don’t know how, but I managed to centre myself and ignore the thoughts that made my head spin. My veins pumped with slight relief, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had done that before. Like forcing myself to neglect – push feelings aside – was something I had done too much of. I let that unfinished recollection trickle to the back of my mind. The panicked rush stole some life out of me. Like a thief it left me feeling weak. I was breathless. Broken.

  Tears welled in Liam’s eyes. I didn’t want that. I couldn’t handle that. I tried to warm my voice, make myself sound convincing, so he didn’t have to worry. But there he was again, asking me something I was afraid I didn’t know the answer to. Was I OK?

  “Yeah, Liam. I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

  I saw words form on his tongue. He swallowed them. I knew he knew I was lying. He turned to the sound of the door opening. I watched him as he lifted his hand to wipe away his tears.

  My doctor strolled in. He wore the usual white coat you see in the movies and a stethoscope draped around his neck, showcasing his broad shoulders. Not your usual doctor – if there was such a thing. I guess I’d call him handsome. Tanned skin, short mousey-blond hair, emerald eyes and dimples that deepened when he spoke or smiled.

  “Good morning, Peyton. Wait, is it still morning?” Dr Handsome checked his watch. “11:56, still morning.”

  There they were, his dimples, as he smiled at me, trying to lighten the mood. What for, I didn’t know. Maybe there was some bad news he wanted to tell me. It would help if I knew what had happened to me in the first place. But I played along and tried to stretch a smile across my face. My skin tightened, almost as if it should have hurt.

  Mum entered the room and hurtled towards me. Tears in her eyes. Since I’d been in hospital I was finding it difficult to picture her without tears. She kissed me on the cheek and told me how much she loved me, then took a seat at my bedside.

  I scanned the room. Déjà vu. The same three faces had looked upon me when the first bomb was dropped. I remember being told I had just come out of a coma. My heart plummeted. My body no longer felt like it was mine. I saw myself lying in the hospital bed. Hooked up to machines. My long dark hair sw
ept from my face. The rest of the moment was blurred, like a part of my life had been ripped away without my permission. I had been asleep for five days straight. Almost a full week of lying there doing nothing but trying to breathe with the help of machines.

  When the words escaped the doctor’s mouth, the room was spinning. I couldn’t breathe. Memories that weren’t mine flooded my brain. My heart pulsed. My bones clattered. My mind wasn’t strong enough to hear the rest. Tears streamed down my face. I think I screamed and begged him to stop talking. Stop everything.

  After the announcement, I dazed in and out of sleep. Fell in and out of darkness. I didn’t want to see the light.

  I wasn’t ready.

  Chapter TWO

  I hated being the centre of attention, but there was nothing I could do to divert it. All eyes were on me – each stencilled with worry. I saw the questions smeared over their faces.

  “Will she be able to handle it?”

  “Is she strong enough to hear the truth?”

  I didn’t know if I was able to handle it. And after that panic attack, my strength – my energy – was waning. But I wanted to try. I wanted to hear the truth.

  I breathed but didn’t feel the breath. The oxygen didn’t tickle my lungs. I only knew I was breathing because I saw my chest rise and fall. My body felt heavy. Numb. But my mind rushed. I didn’t feel in control.

  It was no longer a want of knowing. It was a need. I needed to know.

  “What’s going on? What happened to me? Why am I here? I want to leave.”

  “Sweetheart … Calm down, just let the doctor explain everything.” Mum tried to speak the words soothingly, but her unseen crying made her voice shake.

  My sight snapped to Dr Handsome. He clutched a clipboard. In his hands he held the answers I so desperately desired.

  “Peyton, as you know you have recently woken up from a five-day induced coma.”

  As the last few words escaped his lips, the stone in my chest grew heavier. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I was so numb, I didn’t know if I actually was breathing. I tried to push away the panic. I needed to focus my attention on listening. Focus on the truth. I needed to know what had happened.

  “There is no easy way to tell you this, but you have been in a car crash.”

  It took several seconds for my brain to register his words. I found myself mouthing them: car crash.

  There it was. The reason I should no longer be on this earth. A tingling sensation took over my limbs, like they were remembering the crash, but the feeling was so faint I almost couldn’t feel it. I should have died, yet there I was.

  “A car crash? I don’t remember that.”

  “Peyton, you have suffered injuries and a symptom from your harsh head wound can be Post Traumatic Amnesia or PTA.”

  “Amnesia?”

  “Yes. It’s where –”

  “I know what amnesia is.”

  “P, let the doctor speak …”

  I eyed Mum much more harshly than I meant to. She took my bladed stare; her petite body clenched and retreated into the chair. A tear rolled down her cheek. But I couldn’t find words for an apology. Not right then. I wanted more answers. I needed to know.

  I glared at Dr Enderson, who was covered with sympathy. He was calm and collected, confident and concise. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of how put-together he was. I knew we were in very different situations, but I could feel myself coming undone.

  “I know what amnesia is.” I took a breath. “But I don’t have that. I don’t, because … I still know things. My name, my mum, my brother … Nurses have been asking me those questions. And I did that test over and over, and got stuff right … I, I still remember things.”

  “That’s fantastic, Peyton.” Dr Enderson smiled.

  I couldn’t help but look to his dimples, their sweetness almost soothing.

  “Your results on the Westmead PTA scale have been excellent. We still have to continue with tests and treatments to ensure your responsive and conscious states remain at a high level. With everything we have been doing so far, you have responded exceptionally well. I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to leave the hospital soon and be taking the next step towards your recovery … When you’re feeling strong enough, or when you’re feeling ready, we can get you into therapy.”

  I laughed away the thought. “Why would I need therapy?”

  “Peyton, you’ve been through a traumatic event. Attending counselling sessions and speaking to someone outside of your circle will help. You might be able to speak about things that you aren’t comfortable talking about with anyone else.”

  What things? Maybe I did have amnesia. I had no idea what he was speaking about. Why wouldn’t I be able to talk with my family?

  “What happened to me? Do you know? Do any of you know?” I looked to Mum – her posture had changed. She sat on the edge of the chair and surveyed me like she wished she could trade places.

  “It’s OK, sweetheart.”

  “No. It’s not. I don’t remember … I don’t remember any of it. Was I alone? Was it … was it myfault? Did anyone else get hurt?”

  Mum cupped my hand. She softly stroked my skin, as though at any moment I would break. I glanced down to our hands. My hand. My arm. Bruised. Scratched. Raw. I skipped a breath and retreated from Mum’s hold. My arms didn’t look like the arms I’d known all of my seventeen years. I touched my face. It didn’t feel right. Scabbed. Scrapped. I licked my lips and there it was again, the tingle of pain.

  “Mum I … I don’t …” A lump locked in my throat. It took a couple of attempts but I swallowed it away. “I don’t remember.” Tears escaped and ran down my cheeks. I half expected them to sting my skin but could only assume the needle stuck in my arm gave me strong pain relief.

  “We know, sweetheart. But it’s OK you don’t remember just yet.”

  I saw the rest of her words twist around her tongue. But they wouldn’t come out of her mouth. She didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. But my mum’s words spoken or unspoken wouldn’t change the situation. They couldn’t.

  “Was it my fault? Did anyone else get hurt? Please just tell me … I need to know.”

  “From what we know, Peyton, it was only you in the crash,” Dr Enderson said.

  I locked my sight to the ceiling, relieved. But a sudden haunted feeling struck – I still didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know the truth.

  Chapter THREE

  I didn’t really remember the passing days. Only fragments. I didn’t know if that was because of my supposed Post Traumatic Amnesia or because I had become somewhat skilled at repressing thoughts. Feelings. Memories.

  I was moved from one part of the hospital to another. I read the words ‘Rehab Facility’ as I was wheeled to my new room. I didn’t soak in my surroundings. The walls were just walls. The sanitised stench didn’t clear my sinuses. The nurses’ and patients’ faces were just a blur – blank canvases I had no interest in detailing. I didn’t lock onto the sound of echoed voices and footsteps or feel the need to unravel their stories, knowing that that would only remind me of how much I didn’t want to be there.

  Being told about the crash and truly acknowledging my injuries made me zone out. It allowed me to hide in my darkness, a place where I didn’t have to think.

  I didn’t have to see the light.

  While I was being checked I remembered certain moments. My results suggested everything was fine. I was doing fine. For another week I underwent physical therapy to ensure I could walk, talk and operate my body without difficulties. I was lucky my motor skills weren’t affected. I could do everything. I was a little shaky. My hands trembled whenever I used them. But I was told the more I used them and continued the exercises, the stronger they’d become. Internally, I was recovering quickly. It had been over four weeks since the crash and my body had recovered quicker than the doctor predicted. He was very pleased with my improvements. Externally, I would heal. I would have scars. My skin wo
uld be forever bound with the marks of the accident. The crash I didn’t remember. I didn’t know if I wanted that. Could the scars be beautiful? But I was alive. I think that’s what I wanted. It was most certainly what my mum and my brother wanted. They had been at the hospital and rehab facility with me every day. I don’t know what I would do without them.

  The doctor said I was going to be OK, and if everything went as predicted, I would be able to go home in a few days. But at that time, even though I didn’t want to be there, the thought of being OK didn’t feel like enough, especially to go home. To go back to reality. Every time a nurse came to take me to the room for tests, I’d dread it. It was a waste of time. I watched as the hands turned on the clock. I’d count the dragging minutes until I could go back to my room. Back to sleep. Back to the dark.

  It was night. The dull bedside lamp cloaked the room. I was alone with Mum. Other than the humming of some electric device, we were wrapped in silence. I didn’t know what to say to free us from the quiet.

  “Peyton.”

  My muscles froze. I knew what she was about to ask. I didn’t want her to, but I didn’t have the strength or a valid reason to stop her.

  “Why did you go driving by yourself? You knew I was finishing work in an hour. We could have gone and done some night driving when I got home … Why didn’t you wait?”