The hallucinations pay a visit

She's calling me siren-song to tell more of her story.

Post-op, my corporal self was returned to the room. My everything-else self floated somewhere else, transported by visions. Patterns. Another reality.

How to describe, really?

In front of the bits called my eyes range an astounding display: To begin, unknown faces at first fully visible, but quickly becoming indistinguishable as the focus zooms incredibly close so that only portions are there in minute details of pores and color.

Blink. Hard blink, to clear these people and return to the room, the too bright room.

A desperate need for relief, for escape, sending me scurrying down the rabbit hole as closed eyelids bring new impressions: colors whorling and dividing. Vivid blue lines with whisps of thread tendriling about them, evenly spaced around darker squares muted at the edges.

Blink.

Bright, too bright lights of the room. Pain and confusion. Outside myself, outside any self that ever was or ever would be. Outside the very knowledge of self, the possibility of self, the self-importance of self. Distance but more than distance. Nonexistence, neverexistence, realms of nevercreated — not just myself, but the physical race of humanity.

Terror, as reality becomes an abyss, and then is swallowed screaming into neverabyss.

Blink.

More. More wavering blue strings with whispy tendrils and blurryblack edges.

Blink.

Some hint of understanding, of reality comprehension, then finding blessed relief in that rise of terror.

Blink.

More images of humanity, people who perhaps exist in the future or never did at all coming to grossly overinflate their faces too close too close too close to my present. And patterns spinning.

Blink.

No notions of taste, touch, sound or smell. Only vividvision. Irreality. Expansion. Terror dripping steadily, inescapably, in. Understanding coming, flooding flooding flooding.

And then. They come. It is a tunnel that opens in the middle of the toobright room — no, first a circle of dark with hints of blue-orange lightspots that appears on the right side of the room.

An expanding circle that reveals their shadowsilhouettesouls, Grandma and Grandpa standing shoulder to shoulder on the left, Great Aunt Ella on the right.

They float to me, growing larger. And I bury my fears into them, hurl my terror. I begin to beg. I beg them to do whatever they can to let her live. I beg them through custards of snot and gagging tears and screaming desolation to help her live, to watch over her but to not take her with them. I beg my hallucinations to let Ella simply live, no matter the consequence to her own mortal coil.

I cannot breathe through the begging of my hallucinations to let my daughter, at all costs, at any costs, live live live. I am choking on the wads of my desperation, choking on the naive absurdity of doing what would be best for her medically-morally, vomiting inward those resolutions in the savageness of want.

Somewhere in the middle of this, something is injected into my IV, and there is nothing.