Night to Redeem

Bended will and Tricky dreams

- Aria -

When it comes to stress tests in a clinical setting, they should really consider putting a warning label on them—something along the lines of "This will suck the very life out of you and maybe your will to live." But instead of a warning, all I got was Sean's intense glare as if I were a runaway dog that he was ready to discipline. As I gritted my teeth and submitted to each maneuver they threw my way, I could feel my muscles protesting like disgruntled employees in a failing company. My legs, in particular, were staging a full-blown rebellion.

"Bend deeper, Aria!" a cheerful voice from one of the specialists chirped, just a little too brightly. I felt like responding with, "Sure, just let me twist myself into a pretzel while you're at it!" But instead, I nodded, forcing myself to obey. The world around me blurred slightly; I focused on the rows of sterile equipment and the allergies to success etched on their academic faces.

As I positioned myself in that deep bend, it felt as if I were attempting a circus act under the keen eye of the most judgmental audience imaginable—Sean. Seriously, he stood there, arms crossed, looking like he was about to launch into a lecture on why my life choices were poorly made. His gaze burned into my back, a vulturine watchfulness that made me want to either laugh hysterically or scream.

Just as I thought I could hold it together for a few more seconds, my leg buckled—Yup, just like that. I crumpled inward, and in my mind, I could hear the dramatic score of an opera reaching a crescendo in anticipation of my downfall. The only thing that hurt more than my leg hitting the bed was the realization that I had failed yet another exasperating test.

Sean didn't take this lightly. He exploded all at once, the torrent of his voice crashing into the sterile atmosphere like a tidal wave. "Enough!" he thundered, eyes blazing, practically shaking with rage. I just blinked at him, not processing anything other than the fact that he was indeed angry. "In just a moment, there won't be anything to operate on!" His voice was fierce, slicing through my delirium. My heart raced—not with fear, not with shame, but with confusion. Wasn't I supposed to be pushing my limits? Wasn't that precisely what I was trying to prove to everyone?

The doctors, taken aback by Sean's outburst, shifted their gazes. Apologetic murmurs filled the air as they discussed postponing the rest of the tests. I wanted to voice my protests, to argue that I was fine, that I could do more, that surely this was just a minor setback. But one look from Sean—his face nearly red with pent-up frustration—stifled any words I might have uttered. The air in my lungs felt restricted, and my mouth suddenly had a tight seal, as if someone had glued it shut.

He came over, scooping me up like I weighed less than a feather, and maybe I did, considering how devoid of energy I felt from the exertion. There was something about the way he held me—almost protective but ferociously angry at the same time—that caused butterflies to flutter in my stomach. I wanted to shake off the exhaustion and express my gratitude, but at the moment, I was too worn down to articulate anything sensical.

Back into bed I went, blanket carefully tucked around me as if I were some precious artifact being preserved under glass. "Just rest," he ordered, voice tense and clipped, and I almost wanted to whine about how I was not a child,' thank you very much.' But again, that look—ah, yes, the one that said I was completely off-limits for backtalk at this moment.

He picked a book off the bedside table, one I had started earlier, flipping through the pages as he approached. "Here," he said, pushing it into my hand, but I barely had the energy to focus on the words. "I'll be back; I have…something to do." Just like that, he disappeared down the hall, leaving a trailing air of tension behind him.

Confusion washed over me. I mean, what was I thinking? Deep down, I was grateful for his intervention; my muscles felt tightened—screaming for mercy—but stubbornness didn't allow me to appreciate it fully. There was a flicker of irritation, too. I wanted to show these doctors that I could do more, could push through the pain. I was tired of being the patient being treated as a fragile vase, always on the verge of shattering.

Yet, as I lay back against the pillow, the earlier resolve fizzled out like soda left open too long. The thoughts ricocheted in my head, a chaotic orchestra of frustration, anger, and a hint of defeat. So, I stared at the book in my lap, flipping it over absently, the title staring back at me as though it were mocking my bleak feelings. I could have read. I could have filled my mind with a captivating story, but my brain felt like a potato—heavy, dense, and longing for deep-fried comfort food.

After what felt like eons, I surrendered. I put the book back on the table and let myself sink beneath the blanket, the fluffiness wrapping around me like a warm hug. My eyelids drooped, and soon, I succumbed to a delicate lull that whisked away the turmoil, along with the nagging pain in my legs. Just for a little while, I allowed myself the luxury of drifting into a world where I could forget about stress tests, glares, and the crushing weight on my spirit.

The gentle rhythm of my breaths soothed me into a much-needed nap, and though my body might have been weary, my defiance lingered just beneath the surface, ready to burst forth once I regained my strength. Tomorrow would come, and with it, I would reclaim my resolve—though for now, a deep sleep seemed like the only victory worth embracing.

The dream enveloped me like a silken cocoon, vibrant and exhilarating, each thread woven intricately with the melodies of my heart. I stood on that familiar stage again, my favorite ballet outfit clinging to me—a delicate lilac bodice with shimmering sequins, tulle skirts that flared out with each breath, and my beloved pink ballet slippers, worn soft from years of use. The fabric felt like home, swathing me in nostalgia, whispering secrets of past performances and endless hours of practice that had molded not just my body but the very essence of who I was.

The music swelled—an orchestral crescendo that drummed in my veins like the pulse of life itself. I began to move, limbs unfurling like a flower greeting the dawn, each step fluid and precise. The world melted away, leaving nothing but me and the rhythm. I executed a perfect plié, the feel of the stage beneath me—a wooden canvas where I painted my dreams. My heart pounded with adrenaline, and I could feel the excitement ripple through the audience, a living, breathing organism enraptured by my every move.

With each pirouette, I felt weightless. Showcase after showcase, I had mastered the intricate choreographies—here, I skated across the stage floor, my feet gliding through the air as if they were brushing against the surface of a lake. Every Tour en l'air I performed brought uproarious cheers that filled the hall. I reveled in their admiration, in the adoration spilled across their faces like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The applause swept over me like a euphoric tide as my final pose landed perfectly—arms stretched wide, fingers daring to touch the heavens—when, in a moment's pause, I felt the warmth of tears spill down my cheeks unbidden. Joy that ran too deep for words cascaded from my eyes as I smiled through the emotion, a knowing gaze sharing my triumph with the audience. This was it—the culmination of years spent in rehearsal, sweat, and unwavering determination. I had danced my truth, and as I faced the crowd, I opened myself entirely to them, the sheer vulnerability melting away the boundaries I had erected over the years.

But then, all at once, the atmosphere shifted, pulling me like a rip tide into an abyss. The lights flickered, dimming to a foreboding murmur, and the walls of the theater began to crumble, spilling me out of the warmth into something cold and dark—harnessing me into a vortex of fear and confusion.

With startling abruptness, I found myself hurtling through the darkness, a disorienting rush that made me gasp. Suddenly, everything was jolted away, and I landed with a sickening thud inside a cramped, twisted metal shell—the sound of crumpling car renderings and shattering glass filling my ears like the horrific echo of my own screams resonating off the walls of my mind. It was a cacophony, neither stage nor rehearsal, but a grave reality clawing its way up from memory— every shard of glass, every ounce of pressure reminding me of the vulnerabilities I had danced so carefully around.

I flailed inside the vehicle; the edges felt jagged and unforgiving as if some beast was consuming me. Panic erupted in my chest, my heart racing to escape the confines of this mangled prison. My eyes scraped through the obliterated shards of what once was; everything was chaos—a whirlpool of limbs and shrieks gnawing away any sense of solidarity.

It all came to a static halt. The world compressed in upon itself to an unbearable silence. Heavy darkness wrapped its tendrils around me, fogging my senses as I lay there, limbs heavy and trembling, burned with fear.

Then, through the void, a face emerged. Hollow and haunting, it loomed closer, trying to grasp my awareness, yet it felt misty and elusive. "I'm sorry," it cracked, the voice a thread that intertwined itself into my confusion as I tried to peel apart the layers of recognition that drifted in the haze. I knew that face—deep down in the darkest recesses—it was him.

I gasped as consciousness pulled me from the depths of sleep, flinging me into the slightly dim hospital room that smelled faintly of flowers and food. Evening light filtered in, a reminder that I had clearly slept longer than any respectable nap should allow. Note to self: naps were supposed to be recharging, not time warps.

Just then, Sean grazed my arm, the contact sending a weird little jolt between us. No, it wasn't just static electricity—it was more like a lightning bolt of confusion sparked by the look on his face. Was it pain? Regret? Maybe he'd just eaten something from the hospital cafeteria that was going to haunt him for days.

"I'm sorry, Aria," he said, voice heavy, like he was carrying a ton of bricks. "It's dinner time. You should really eat something after those exhausting tests."

Great. If I were going to be stuck in this hospital, I might as well enjoy the delightful culinary offerings of whatever mystery tray they served up. I nodded, taking the flimsy plastic tray he'd prepared like it was a gourmet meal, and I dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten in a week (even if that wasn't true).

Meanwhile, Sean settled into the chair that had transformed into his makeshift office. He turned to stare out the window, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was contemplating life choices or just zoning out on the sunset.

But my mind had other plans, dragging me back to the dream I'd had—specifically, that person whose face lingered in my mind, issuing an apology that felt heavy with significance. Was that dream's trickery at play again, or was there something—someone—trying to reach out to me from the wreckage of my memories? Ten years had passed since the accident, yet here I was, grappling with these shadows of the past that were more stubborn than a nasty stain on your favorite shirt.

I took another bite, chewing not just the food but the weight of the questions swirling around in my head. Whatever it was, one thing was clear: I was up for a long night of thinking, and I hadn't even brought popcorn.