Memory- A fiction piece

I had a nightmare again last night. It’s the one I’ve been having ever since the accident twenty years ago. I’m running for help and screaming at the top of my lungs by no one can hear me. I’m covered in blood, but not my own, and my adrenaline is pumping so hard I think my heart might break out of my chest. I see her lying on the ground about fifty feet away, motionless. Everything around me looks familiar, yet different at the same time. The road I’m running on is a bit narrower than in real life, and the trees aren’t as green as they usually are. A car passes by and I wave my arms frantically. At the last second, I jump out of the way to avoid being hit. All of a sudden I’m falling. I’m screaming but no words are coming out. Down below me there is nothing but rushing water and sharp rocks. I close my eyes and brace myself for the impact. Then I wake up.

When I awake I’m wet. Usually it’s just sweat but sometimes I actually piss myself. Doctor says that’s just old age. I take my sheets of the bed and put them in the wash; start the wash but forget the detergent. I make myself cereal for breakfast and read the paper. No coffee though, my ulcer is back. Around noon I make myself shower and get ready for the day. Last month my daughter got me a seat for the shower so that I don’t slip. She says if I ever did “ have a spill” there would be no one around to hear me yell for help. What a shame. As I sit on the seat in the shower I think about what it would be like accidentally to slip and fall, how much it would hurt, how long it would take to pass out. I think about how I shouldn’t even be alive and sitting here now in the first place. When my daugher calls me around four I tell her about my nightmare and she tells me that it’s the Alzheimer’s talking. She says that I should look at the brochures she gave me about the treatment facilities nearby. I don’t tell her that last week I ran out of fire wood and the brochures were the closest thing to throw in the fire. When we hang up I go to the refrigerator. Today is Tuesday. Tuesday means that Mrs. Powers from church is bringing me dinner. I hope it’s not another one of her casseroles.

Before dinner I fold my laundry. My sheets still smell like piss and I conclude that I must need to buy a stronger detergent. At six the doorbell rings and Mrs. Powers greets me with a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. She sets the table for me and fixes my plate. I eat sloppily without using a napkin and she watches me to make sure that I finish my plate. When I tell her that I’m finished she clears everything from the table and puts the leftovers in the refrigerator. I walk her to the door and tell her that I’ll see her tomorrow. She tells me she “only brings me food on Tuesday and Friday,” and I feel stupid. I watch Wheel of Fortune at 7 and Jeopardy at 7:30 and call it a night. Before bed I read the note on my bathroom mirror left by my daughter. “IMPORTANT: take medicine, take out teeth, turn off lights, lock doors, check all appliances.” I crawl in bed and close my eyes. I’m thinking happy thoughts. I’m on a beach. Somewhere nice like where my wife and I went for our honeymoon. There’s a cool breeze blowing and the sun is bright. I can see a sailboat in the distance with a bright red sail. Blue sky, white sand, and crystal clear water. I’m running for help and screaming at the top of my lungs by no one can hear me. I’m covered in blood, but not my own, and my adrenaline is pumping so hard I think my heart might break out of my chest.