Shifter

It was as much a coffin as it was a bed, though the resemblance was not immediately apparent to an impartial observer. No hard shell of polished wood was this but it was as restricting to the occupant nonetheless. The bed was comfortable, soft and clean but none of these facts registered with the occupant, in the deep sleep of the comatose. The silent drip-dripping of the IV feed went entirely unnoticed as did the soft beeps of the machines that monitored his various bodily responses. Like the most vigilant nurse imaginable these machines kept the occupant of the bed alive, in body if not in mind. Unless otherwise instructed the care they provided would continue uninterrupted short of electrical or mechanical failure.

The woman watched all of this as she continued her silent vigil over the resident of the bed. Once she had visited daily with all the precision of the machines that monitored the patient but now it was only once a week. Hope had diminished her fervour, hope that the patient would suddenly come round, open his eyes and rein the land of the living. The passage of time had diminished that hope but had never extinguished it. It would take something far more momentous to snuff out the flickering flame she clung to. She would not give up yet; she owed it to herself to keep faith that one day the occupant would wake up. She also had more selfish reasons to adhere to, having much invested in the motionless body that lay before her.

She would not give up on her son just yet.

Besides, if she had been more vigilant could she not have prevented the turn of events that unfolded? If she had seen the signs just a little earlier, had been just that little bit more observant could she not have done something, anything, to prevent the tragedy that lay ed out for the world to see? The woman felt abject failure that her only son for all extents and purposes lay lifeless, like so much meat on a butcher’s table. Deep down she knew that it wasn’t really her fault but the guilt of the parent over the perceived failure to properly protect her sibling would never leave her. That was her prerogative as a parent. It was her penance.

She stared at the eyelids, unmoving as they had been for so many months.

Wake up Andy, please wake up.

The eyelids, of course, did not open.

Not even the ghost of a flicker.

She inwardly sighed and not for the first time tears threatened. Not now, she thought and the tears, reprimanded, retreated to a shadowy corner of her mind. She had shed many tears since her son’s condition had first been diagnosed. ‘I’m afraid Andy is completely comatose,’ the doctors had said, but still they seemed unsure of their diagnosis. Her son had unusual brain wave patterns that did not correspond to those observed in everyday life or even in dreams. It was nothing like they had ever recorded before. Nevertheless, he did not respond to any external stimuli so comatose it was. Who was she to disagree?

Ann Moses continued to stare at the face of her son, so peaceful and seemingly at ease. The doctors had said no but she wondered if he dreamed and what form such dreams could take. If he ever awoke would he remember her, would he remember his friends, any of them? What kind of a life could he have – could he take up from where he had left off? Of course not she remembered. He had issues did her son whom she loved so dearly but whom was cursed with inherent flaws. No, he would need rehabilitation, loving tender care that she herself would be first in line to provide. Her only child would get nothing but her undivided attention until he was well enough to stand on his own two feet once again. She would make it her prime mission in life to see her son whole again. All she needed now was the chance to put into practice her self-avowed intentions. She was not in anyway devout but she was a desperate woman who was prepared to try anything to have her son wake up once again.

Please God, I ask just this one thing. Let my son wake up. Please…

Then the eyelids flickered and her world imploded.