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In and Out of Sunshine

by Finnlay Dall

An image of the sun shining on the horizon.

CW: Bodily fluids, allusions of (not to) death.

I wake up. TV’s on, but my head is static. Grey-white fills my vision, a sterile noise. I lie in the haunt of the living dead. Stickers scatter, torn and bent up and down the bedframe. The neon signs of faded life; plasma left by child phantoms who mourn their end of days. I stare at torn thumbs of approval and yellow smiles. But like this husk of a hospice tomb, I am now dead on arrival. A girl groans from behind a curtain. A tired wail from weeks of beckoning to no one. Plaster legs bind me to the bed. Mustering energy, I twist my shoulders, turn and listen for her again. Only croaks escape her lips. Her voice rots from straining. My ears curdle with her. But time’s up. Foreign chemicals invade my body as grey noise returns. I lose signal of the room, switching off.

I’m out.

And just like that, I’m in again.

Parents arrive, switch me back on. Mum hasn’t slept. Despite the reboot, I haven’t either. Dad stands further back. His love and pain is quiet and distant. Yet, it’s felt all the same. We smile to spite Death’s stifling presence, ignoring each others’ dark bags. Curtain Girl croaks to life. Her family has come too. Her boyfriend brought a plush. A potted dancing sunflower. You are my sunshine. Curtain Girl croaks with joy. Quickly, Mum, Dad and I learn to create our own sunshine. For in this dreary place, nothing beams through the windows.

I’m out.

And just like that, I’m in again.

A spotlight blinds me in the black of night. A young nurse operates it, sits me up. She holds my chest with a gentle hand, keeping me stable. I eye her pale hair, her soft face. An angel? I wonder. She delivers unto me a red vial of liquid. She presses the remedy to my lips. Down the potion flows. Up the venom throws. Guts and poison splatter on white sheets. I fall back, gutted by The Angel of Death.

I’m out.

And just like that, I’m in again.

The next day, my puke is served to me in a small ceramic bowl. A grey soup with greyer ham. Dad and I grimace, watching the slurry ooze onto the spoon. Maybe if I don’t have to look at it, it’ll go down easier. The TV airs its horrid kids’ programming. A Canadian abomination presented in three dimensions. I’m forced to stomach it all in spoonfuls. When all is said and done, I take on the grey soup’s hue. You are what you eat. So, I serve it back into the bowl; chunks and all.

I’m out.

I’m in again.

It’s down the shitter from here on out. It’s dark outside, the curtains are closed. Worst of all, little Annie belts her heart out on the TV. My innards flow legato onto the bedpan; a chemically induced, brown misery.

The sun’ll come out

Tomorrow

Bet your bottom dollar

That tomorrow

There’ll be sun!

The sun’ll come out tomorrow.

So, you gotta hang on ‘til tomorrow.

Come what may.

I’m out.

I’m in again.

Tomorrow comes. With it, my casts come off. And you bet your bottom dollar the sun’s not coming out today. I’m stuck in bright blue ‘Zimmers’. Their foam padding makes my legs look bloated, starved of their blood. These, I’m told, will keep my legs straight. But not for long. I’ve shit the bed and the Zimmers. Whatever this hospital is pumping me full of, it’s sucking what little life I have left.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

The casts are back on. My legs had failed their probation. Curtain Girl’s ceased her croaking. She has for a while now. I can’t see her. I guess I never could. Will her sunflower come out and dance again? Will it come out tomorrow?

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

The sunflower refuses to poke its head out, and despite the countless tomorrows ahead of me, I fear the sun’ll never come. My brother and cousins, arrive in its stead. It’s a small fanfare. There isn’t much to celebrate. I’m utterly drained of life, mind and spirit. I speak, but all that comes forth is the croaks of the living dead. The conversation lights the place a little, but a dying sun will go out all the same. So, my family divide my shine amongst themselves, taking a piece of me into the black of night. No matter how sad it is to be left in the darkness.

But, just like that, The Sun comes out.

And at long last, tomorrow comes in.

It happens fast. I’m unhooked from the IV, its venom ejects from my veins. I bolt upright. Free from Death’s clutches, life flows through my body anew. The catheter comes out, a last ‘fuck you’, and I’m alive once more. I’m scrubbed down from head to foot. My legs, freed from the shackles of my casts, emerge from an older, hairier time. My body, shorn back down to its youth, is polished to a shine. I shed the dirty wool and skin of the damned and with my soft, newborn skin, I slip into the wheelchair. From parents, doctors, children and staff, elation spreads; infectious. With Mum’s blessing, my brother wheels me out of the room and into the corridors for ‘somewhere more fun’.

We glide down a hallway. A corner here, a corner there. We trudge further and further into the bowels of The Children’s. The pale walls slowly gain their colour back.

And just like that, my world opens up again. A loud, vibrant play centre, hidden within the walls of this crypt, is revealed. I’m surrounded by stars.

Starlight is full of games, full of fun, full of life. We wheel over to the crowd, ready to enjoy ourselves. But immersed in that sea of stars and children, a fuzzy thought nags the back of my mind…

At ten years old, this surgery was a week of death and disease. I haven’t heard or seen Curtain Girl since. Hopefully she’s here, outside with me. We never met, probably never will. But who knows, there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow I may meet her. And maybe tomorrow, she’ll greet me with a name, a smile, and some sunshine of her own.

But, for now at least, it’s all over.

And just like that, I’m full of sunshine.

Image of a sunflower toy wearing sunglasses and playing a saxaphone.

Finnlay Dall is a writer from Melbourne obsessed with every medium. If something tells a compelling story and has fun doing it, he’s hooked. He tries to put the weird and wonderful into everything he does and proves that having a disability is neither something to scoff or gawk at.


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