It is good news, he tells me. Amazing news.
This is supposed to mean something to me; of that at least, I am certain... though I cannot find it in myself to care. His words drone on and on, but none of them seem significant. He drapes his diagnosis in technical details and dresses it with hope for the future which means nothing to me. They can't see that I feel lost. I feel adrift. I do not care; I care more than anything. I don't understand; I understand everything. I want to leave, but I am afraid. I want to stay here, but I am afraid.
Something has gone wrong, they say. They don't know what. But still, I am alive... they think. In so far as I can walk around this bland, sterile little hospital room, I am alive. In so far as I could talk to them should I wish it, I am alive. The blood in my veins flows slowly, my heart beats and my lungs fill with air. But the tongue in my mouth that seems so unwilling to form words is dry and cannot taste. My brainwaves do not show any activity, my skin is cold. I cannot feel anything. Yet still I sit here in front of them. My eyes are unnaturally pale and my gaze seems to unnerve whomever I direct it at. I do not blink. The Doctor continues his diagnosis by rote, detailing my symptoms one by one, now and again looking down at his notes. Occasionally, he gestures at me as he speaks. Perched on a chrome stool, he swivels the seat around to face the others in the room.
I am the first to come back, he continues. As such, there will be a few initial problems to overcome, but there is significant global interest in me. There is even more interest in this place. This I understand; this I remember. Awaking to brilliant light and pain and the sound of cheering. Before that... I don't know. There was darkness.
They have given me a photograph, but the man staring out of it is alien to me, no matter what the mirror shows. He is not me, although he looks like me. I am a different thing, reborn, changed. I am lost within myself. I feel a stirring echo of my life before, a resonance within me that should mean something - but none of it touches me. I am unique and I am alone. I feel nothing and everything. I see the man in the photograph, I see the children he is holding in his arms. I see the woman whose eyes radiate love from below long, soft hair that spills like caramel over her shoulders. They are haunting, familiar, and something gnaws at my mind in painful recognition. I know I should, but I can't remember them, I can't remember holding them, or ever being looked at like that. I can't remember love. She is laughing in the pictures; the man is smiling. I cannot smile.
The diagnosis goes on. I watch faces turn away one by one, unsettled, as I stare at them. They cannot say why my body refuses to respond totally to the drugs and the treatments; why I have not come completely back to myself. I turn away from the people in the room and look at the photograph again. They will not tell me where the family in the photograph are; they will not tell me how long I have been here.
The Doctor continues. He tells the room at large that it is a scientific miracle that they have achieved. The process of bringing a human being out of Cryostasis has finally succeeded, and I am the first subject to come back to consciousness. They have conquered death, he says, and I hear the sound of cautious applause. Blinded by what they have achieved, they have missed what is truly important. They know I was gone and they know they brought me back. But they don't ask what they brought me back from. I would tell them if I could; but every time I try to focus on it my memory dissipates like oil on water.
I remember darkness. I am afraid of what might have been within it, yet I am afraid of what awaits me here. I feel hollow, like there is a huge part of me missing. They tell me that I wanted this, and I cannot imagine why I might have once thought that. They tell me all about the process of Cryogenic Freezing. They tell me I am still a rich man, and again - that I wanted this. I can't believe it. They tell me I gave myself to this willingly. All I want to do now is lie down again. Close my eyes and sleep - but I can't sleep, and I can't dream.
And yet... I think I dreamed, somewhere in the darkness. There was something there, something huge and wild and magnificent, and it's just nagging at the limits of my memory, vivid, brilliant and terrible, so close I could touch it but forever out of my reach. Like the woman in the picture; with her love shining so clearly across her face; like the children in the picture; frozen in time with their beautiful smiles and tiny hands and happy eyes and golden skin - so close the memory fills my mind like the warmth of sun on my skin; a dream so beautiful it would make me cry if I could see it, but it is always impossibly out of reach, like chasing a rainbow or tasting colours.
I come back to myself slowly. The room is empty. I was not aware of anyone leaving, I have no idea of how long I have been alone. The photograph lies on the floor at my feet. I raise my head and look around me. I can see lots of faces looking at me from viewing windows set high in the white walls, like I am an insect observed under glass. It matters little, when I slowly begin to understand the terrible truth - that my body sits in this room, but my soul remains somewhere else.
I know then what I must do.
Moving like a robot, I stand. I am aware of movement behind the glass, this being the first time I have shown any kind ambition with my body. People are pointing, gesticulating. My robe falls open as I walk slowly over to the only door, pulling a chair behind me. I see them starting to run as I jam the chair under the door handle, barring it. Fists start hammering the glass but it is soundproof, so I hear nothing - the impact makes it shudder in its frame with every strike. I pull the cord of my robe free and form it into a noose.
It is easy to climb onto the doctor's stool and attach the cord onto the light fitting. I remove the robe, put the noose around my neck, and without hesitation kick the stool from under my feet.
There is a momentary sensation of falling, then I am jerked rigid. Too late, there comes shouting from behind the door as the cord tightens and brutally constricts my throat. There is pain shooting up my spine, my feet spasm and my idiot tongue sticks uncontrollably from my mouth. There is a rushing sound in my ears which ascends to a deafening roar, blocking out the screams.
Against my will, I am dimly aware of my hands reaching up to tear at the noose, but it is a futile, animal gesture. I cannot close my eyes as they bulge from my face, but still my vision is dimming, burning away as an impenetrable, impossible blackness blossoms like a constellation in front of me, and I begin to feel something for the first time since they revived me.
I see the darkness again, and I remember what awaits me there.
And then there is hope.