Title: Last Song on the Radio
Author: Kira [tenshidejiko@yahoo.com]
Rating: PG-13 for angst
Category: General, Josh PV
Author's Notes: This is my first fray into first
person point of view, in this case, Josh's. This
started as a short scene I used to warm up for my
English final (yes, I know, warming up for an English
final with Josh angst!) and turned into this fic.
Feedback is appreciated. Special thanks to Amber, my
beta, for finding and fixing all those pesky mistakes.
Summary: "Music is a way to communicate beyond words,
you know that?"
I'm not crazy.
Nope, not me. I'm 100% sane.
Okay, maybe 80% or 70%, but I'm not crazy.
Then answer me this: how come I can't listen to music
anymore? How come I have to wake up to CNN Morning
News clicking on my TV instead of to an alarm clock?
Did you know you can program your television to turn
on at a specific time? Yup. Took me a week to figure
that one out. I swear, I drove Donna crazy with all
the calls I placed to her as I tried to translate the
instruction manual into English. Those things aren't
even written in English – its some bizarre
instructional language created just to annoy
consumers. I should do something about that. Really.
Anyways, back to the topic on hand, though I find that
my mind wanders to inane things more often now. I find
it hard to concentrate sometimes.
So, is my TV thing abnormal?
I can listen to music once and awhile; when someone's
radio is on the outside my office or music is being
played on the street. The thing is, I don't dare
listen to it for longer than accidental listening. I'm
afraid of what might happen, and I hate being
controlled by that fear. I've always felt that I could
take on anything – just ask anyone who knows me and
they'll tell me I'm egotistic. Ah yes, I do know they
say this behind my back. Why should I care what other
people think of me? If I put my mind to it, I could be
in total control of my life and everything in it.
I wanted it to be that way after Joanie. After that
happened, after that moment when I lost control of
everything, I vowed I would never let that happen
again. I would never let anything else get that much
out of my control that I'd lose someone again.
Allowing things to spiral too far out of control was
costly, and I don't think I ever want to pay the price
again. Ever. Hence, this fear of music that grips my
heart so harshly frightens me more than the fear
itself. It creates a spiraling effect that brings me
even farther down.
On some days I can't even imagine getting out of bed
in fear of it. I usually wake up to either the tail
end of commercials or the morning show's host; they
can't get their scheduling correct. I wonder why that
is sometimes. Anyways, sometimes those commercials
have music in them; awakening to this grips me in an
icy cold shroud of pain that only lets go when the
music halts. It's those days that I go into work dull
and quiet, gaining Donna's worried eyes. I have since
changed my TV to go off at a time I know there won't
be any music – just talk.
I used to go into work humming the last song I heard
that morning as I was getting ready, which Donna had
nicknamed Last Song Syndrome. I know she has it, too,
which makes her annoyance at the occurrence, well,
cute. My humming used to annoy her to the point that
she wouldn't come when I called. Not anymore. You can
tell she kind of misses it (which is sub-text I think)
but never says anything about it. In regards to the
occurrence last August, she doesn't say anything at
all.
That and she was with me at Christmas. She was with me
when I lost the control over my life with such grace
that I made a breakdown look like a falling piano. And
that's what it felt like. I was falling and couldn't
find anything to grab onto.
I tried my window, but that didn't turn out as I
planned.
I grasped onto Donna's hand to climb back up from that
one. And after seeing Stanley, I thought everything
would be okay. I really did. He said I'd get better
one day at a time (well, that's what I got from it),
and I have been.
So why can't I listen to something so simple like
music?
With Donna's silence about everything, I find it hard
to face the past and move one, since, well, no one
talks about it. Sometimes it comes out in
conversation, but is halted immediately when they see
my reaction. I didn't even know I reacted. It's such a
subconscious occurrence that I never noticed nor
remembered any actions I took. That is, until a few
days ago.
It was a week ago, to be precious, when I was talking
with Sam and CJ about something I don't remember what.
Somehow, the conversation turned to the shooting, and
I blanked out. My mind went to a completely different
place, thinking about the seven million other things I
had to do instead of talking with them. I had four
legislative agendas to take care of, dry cleaning to
remind Donna about, three meetings –
That's when I found out.
I was brought back to reality by the silence, along
with CJ and Sam's faces. They had those eyes.
"What?" I asked them, running a nervous hand through
my hair.
"Are you okay?" inquired Sam, crossing his arms. This
was the I'm-concerned-but-trying-to-look-like-I'm-not
pose. I knew this pose. They weren't going to let me
go on this one.
"Yeah, why?"
"You had this horrible look on your face," CJ said.
"And you were flexing you left hand," Sam added. "Are
you sure you're okay?"
"Yep." I flashed a trademark grin their direction and
turned away, my office looking pretty good right now.
I hid. That's what I did. For the rest of the day, I
avoided everyone like they were the plaque and kept
myself immersed in my work. Soon, the subject went
away and everyone went on with their lives.
Or so I thought.
Now I'm walking into my office, CJ sitting behind my
desk and looking at the papers I have thrown about my
desk. It kind of reminds me of when she was angry with
me for the whole Sam situation a long time ago.
Except this time, she didn't have anger written on her
face, she had concern.
So I shut the door behind me and walk over. Okay, CJ,
I'm not going to let you know I know why you're here.
Nope, I'm totally clueless and have work to do, so why
are you sitting in my chair?
"Why are you in my chair?" I asked. CJ raised her
eyebrows and took her feet from on the desk.
"Josh, we need to talk," she commented simply, leaning
across the desk. Putting my hands on my hips, I try to
look angry. I am, too. Why do people feel the need to
butt into my life all the time?
"Right. Well, we'll have to do it later, I have work
to do."
"No you don't," she interjected, "I already talked
with Donna and she said your schedule is clear for the
next hour." Damn Donna. Sometimes I think my mother
has channeled her and is speaking through my
assistant. Does she realize that people move away from
they're parents to escape being babied?
"I have files to go over to prepare for the meetings
in an hour. That's why it's clear," I respond. I'm
really not in the mood for this. The rain and cold
weather has made my entire body ache with such
ferocity I almost fell down walking to a meeting this
morning.
Oh God – CJ was standing behind me when it happened.
"Look, CJ, I'm fine, just a little tired. Okay?"
Please let her leave. A blast of air conditioning hits
me from behind, intensifying the aching in my back. I
think I'm going to be sick.
"Being tired is one thing, but almost fainting in the
middle of the Yellow Hall is another," CJ retorted.
"And that's not the first time I've seen something
like that happen to you," she added softly. When Donna
comments on how thick headed I am sometimes, I
shouldn't deny it. And that sickness is creeping up on
me again, so I think I'll take a seat in a chair –
just for a moment. I don't want CJ to think I actually
want to talk with her about this. Nope, I don't want
to, not now.
"It comes with the long hours. I just need a weekend
to slee-"
"Damn it, Josh!" she interrupted. "That's not it and
you know it. Why do you keep denying what's going on?
You're going to run yourself into the ground if you
keep this up."
"Excuse me?" I didn't want anyone to find out. No one
was supposed to know and that way, I could keep on
coming to work and no one would get hurt. They all
know about me and music, isn't that enough?
"Josh, I'm just worried about you," CJ rose from my
chair and walked slowly and carefully over to where I
now stood, steam coming out of my ears. "We all are.
C'mon – "
"What, and you were voted the one to talk to me? Did
you get the short straw? Well guess what, I don't need
anyone to look after me; I'm fine doing that on my
own! Don't you dare come in here and tell me my health
status!" Maybe I should calm down a little. That
sickness is coming back, and I'm finding it hard to
get breath to continue arguing. Dr. Carpentier, my
newest in a slew of doctors, has told me that getting
upset at this time might not be in my best interest.
God, why do people feel the need to tell me what to do
all the time? Do they think that just because I got
shot that I've lost all abilities to look after
myself? I've been doing in for almost twenty years
now; I don't just lose it in a day.
"Why would you think that? You think this concern is
fake? Fine!" Throwing her hands off, she stalked out
of my office via the connecting door, slamming it as
she did. Relief washed over me, but the uneasiness
didn't leave. Maybe I just had to sit down. Yeah, sit
down.
I don't think I made it to the chair.
**
An hour later, Donna came in to retrieve me for my
next meeting. I heard the door groan open and her
light footsteps come towards me. Opening my eyes, I
found myself lying on the ground near my chair, having
just missed it on my attempt to sit down. Last thing I
remember is CJ storming off and me going to sit down.
My head hurts. I must have hit it on something as I
fell.
Note to self: don't hit head on objects while falling.
Wait, another Note to Self: don't collapse at work, or
at all for that matter.
Maybe I should call Dr. Carpentier when I get home.
"Josh?" Damn, I forgot Donna was in here. Ignoring
groaning muscles, I pulled myself up and into my
chair, a smile plastered on my face.
"Yeah, what's up?" Don't ask about me being on the
floor, okay Don-
"Why were you on the floor?"
"I tripped."
"You're a terrible liar, Joshua. I heard CJ storm out
about an hour ago, what was that all about?"
"Nothing," I reply. Donna seems to back off a little,
finding that her questioning won't get her anywhere.
Instead, she plops some files down on my desk.
"Well, your meeting was canceled. I brought the files
on Tripton so you can read up before tomorrow morning.
Other than that, it's 5 o'clock and I think I might be
able to get out of here on time for once."
"Sure, whatever." Switching on my desk lamp, I pull
the files closer and immerse myself in them, trying to
keep my mind focused on one thing instead of the fifty
billion things that usually take up my superior
brainpower.
"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, rounding the desk
to stand next to me. I turn away, trying to make out
something she wrote on the cover of a file.
"Fine. Go home. Have a night off for once. I'll be
fine here, but I want you in early tomorrow morning,"
I reply with a wave of my hand. She stands there.
"Go." She still stands there.
"You don't look so good. Maybe you should go home."
She added some extra emphasis to the word you. I have
to admit; her motherly nature towards me sometimes is
just what I need. Looking over at her, I gave her a
full smile (or at least all I could muster since my
face really hurt, too) and nodded.
"Sure," I replied, "why not?" This earned me a large
smile from Donna, who started gathering up my files
while I slowly stood up and walked to retrieve my
coat. A glance out the window revealed the rain still
pouring down like buckets outside, just as it had been
at six o'clock this morning when I arrived. With the
large black clouds covering the sun, it appeared to be
midnight instead of early evening. And people wonder
why I'm so pale.
In my current predicament, I don't think any kind of
sun would rectify my paleness factor. I feel like
absolute hell. Every bone and muscle in my body has
gone on strike, leaving me to move around as if I'm
driving without power steering. Let me tell you, that
takes more effort that ever, especially on turns. So
sluggish is my body response that Donna beats me to my
coat and holds it out for me. An expression on anger
must have flashed over my face because she switched
hands and held it out for me to take and put on
myself.
"Thanks," I say, my face trying to melt into something
nicer. I'm so tired that my face falls, holding a
dull, expressionless look. At least, that's what
Donna's reaction seems to denote. She mumbles
something under her breath and walks out to her own
desk, retrieving her own items before returning to my
office. In the time she was gone I had placed the
neatly stacked files into my backpack and slung it
over my shoulder.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks one last time. I
nod, lacking the strength to do anything else, and
walk dumbly by her side, my stride noticeably slower
than hers. She slows to match mine, placing a hand on
my shoulder. It feels nice. She's always been the one
there to support me, call her my rock.
By the time we reach security I'm out of breath and
move to sit on one of the benches. Donna's arm is
totally encircling my shoulders now. I have no idea
what's happening to me. Was it the music I heard on
the way to work? Or the aching I've been feeling for
the last few days? What did I ever do to deserve this?
"Josh, maybe you should see a doctor or something,"
she comments, her body twisted to face me while
holding my shoulders. I shake my head. She knows as
well as I do how much I dislike doctors and hospitals.
Plus, I've been in the hospital long enough for one
year, and I don't want to make it my vacation home. I
quickly hunch over, my lungs aching as I cough. I
haven't coughed in a while. I mean, sure I've coughed,
but not like this. Not like this when I feel like my
throat in being poked with a knife and I have to cough
desperately to get it out of there. I gasp and catch a
glance at Donna's face. She's absolutely terrified.
I feel the pressure around my shoulders lighten as
Donna jumps off the bench and runs to the security who
are already on the phone. I hear her talk with the
night guard, then feel the weight on the bench change
as she sits down and places her arm back around me.
Everything's a haze right now. I can't see anything
other than the white marble floor below me, can't
really hear anything than my blood rushing in my ears.
I feel a break in the coughing and turn up to face
Donna, trying my hardest to smile.
"I'm fine," I manage to say. I hate to see Donna this
upset, especially over me. She was supposed to be home
by now, being able to have a night off this week, not
sitting here with me. "Go home," I add, my voice
nothing louder than a whisper. I think my voice is
hoarse, but I can't be sure.
"You're not fine," she replies. Her voice sounds as if
she's been crying. I made her cry? "You've been hiding
this from me for weeks. No more. You're going to see a
doctor, and you're going now." I've learned that when
she sounds like that, it's not wise to argue with her.
Not like I could manage to argue with her now.
I smile again and try to speak, but this launches a
new wave of coughing, and I lean forward once again.
There's a commotion near the security gate, and I hear
several voices speaking above me. I think the First
Lady's voice is among them, along with Toby and Sam's.
They must have still been writing the speech for next
week's benefit and ran down here. CJ soon joins them,
along with Leo, who seems to be barking out orders to
everyone. Donna's hand moves from my shoulders to my
hand as my coat is taken off me. I think they're
taking me out, the voices sounding more and more
urgent as I continue to move.
And Donna's there the whole time.
**
"Joshua?" Its Leo's voice. Slowly, I open my eyes and
look up as I try and let my eyes adjust to the bright
light. Damn. Only hospitals believe it's necessary to
totally blind their patients to the point of
annoyance. I'm in the hospital and Leo is standing
over me. This cannot be good. "Hey, how are you
feeling?"
"Like I was run over by a semi," I reply hoarsely. Leo
laughs and takes a seat next to my bed, leaning
forward towards me.
"Yeah, well, you should. I can't believe you didn't
tell anyone what was going on," he commented. Here
comes the scolding. If Donna's my mother, Leo is
definitely my father. After my real father died Leo
became a surrogate to me, at least even more so than
he had been before. Now he's going to scold me like a
father. "Donna and CJ both say you've been having
problems, heck, CJ even said she came to see you about
them and you just brushed her off. Why did you feel
you couldn't say anything?"
"It wasn't a problem."
"Do you know what happened?" Leo asked instead.
"No."
"A piece of scar tissue from your surgery blocked
several air sacks in your lungs, making it so you
didn't get enough oxygen. It finally made it so your
body couldn't function. Tell me, did you find it hard
to move Wednesday?" Wednesday? Wasn't that today, or
at least yesterday?
"Yeah. How long have I been out?" Leo sighed.
"Four days. They had to go in and fix everything." I
groaned. Surgery again? Leo pointed his finger at me,
a fatherly look on his face. "You know, you have to
take better care of yourself. And for God sakes, tell
us when something's not right. We do care, no matter
how much we yell at you." I couldn't help but laugh,
causing me to cough again. Leo put his hand on my arm,
trying to calm me. "And be careful."
"Yeah." I smile after I finally regain the ability to
speak. Leo pats my hand and stands up; his face
brighter than it had been when I first work up.
"Now, there are other people who want to see you – "
"Oh God," I groan. I just want to sleep. Is that too
much to ask for? I'm tired and don't want to be here.
I hope the surgery was just minor stuff so I can get
out of here as soon as possible. I really hate these
places, and no one seems to understand that. I can
only tell them so many times. And right now, I'm not
going to say a thing because I truly am tired and
would like to sleep some more.
When I'm asleep, I can pretend I'm at home and nothing
is wrong. I can pretend that I have a week off from
work that I am a perfectly healthy person who doesn't
have to watch what activities I do or how many hours I
work. I can actually lift things again and save the
hundred dollars I spend every two weeks on pills. And
in these dreams I'm not on so many pills that make me
look like an old person with a hip replacement.
Sleep is good, and according to every person who looks
at me, I don't get enough of it. This I know, because
lately I've been tired.
Though I think there are other factors to cause that.
Leo gives me another look, then turns and walks out of
the room; the slice of door left open reveals the
entire senior staff outside, most looking more sleep
deprived than normal. You know, they always say
they're okay with worrying and not getting sleep, but
it always makes me feel bad and I have no idea why.
Donna walks in, her face looking the most tired out of
all of them, or at least, out of what I could see of
them. Something she does strikes me as odd, and I look
up at her with a quizzical face. She stands. Yup, you
heard me, she stands. Instead of taking a seat like
Leo did and she did before, Donna stands next to my
bed with the kind of face that shows she's hiding her
true feelings. Her eyes are puffy like she's been
crying, but the blue spheres behind that redness are
sparkling with something else.
"I'm glad you're awake," she starts, her voice
wavering a bit. "We were all worried about you. I know
you hate hospitals, so you'll be happy to hear your
surgery wasn't as big as the last one, so you can
leave in a week or so. Unfortunately, you'll be off of
work two weeks after that."
"Donna, what's wrong?" I ask. She ignores me and
continues speaking as if it's been rehearsed
beforehand and to waver from it would mean disaster.
"Your mom was going to come down but can't make it due
to the storm system." This statement causes me to do
two things, a. look out the window and see that it's
still a downpour out there and b. frown. I love my
mom. Love her to death, and to hear that she won't be
coming down to see me is kinda, well, disappointing.
Hopefully, the storm system will lighten up soon so
she can make it down. Donna responds to my frown with
a whimper.
"Hey," I start. "Are you okay?" She stops and levels
with me.
"Am I okay? Am I okay? You're the one lying here in a
hospital bed and you're asking if I'm okay?"
"Yes, I am," I respond. "And please don't yell." My
head is already pounding and I don't need her loud
voice giving me an even worse headache.
"Sorry. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I say. She seems to get cross again.
"Fine? I don't want to hear you say that again. That's
like your cover for not feeling well."
"Okay." I can feel my eyelids already starting to
droop. A warm smile comes across her face and she
moves closer to my side, giving me a kiss on the
forehead. It's very tender and sweet as she dwells on
it for a few seconds before standing straight again
and pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Good night, Joshua," she wishes, and slowly walks out
of the room.
Who is she and what has she done to Donna Moss?
**
Physical comedy has always been appealing to me. It's
just that the prospect of someone else getting hurt
makes me laugh. It all started when I was ten and saw
the Three Stooges. They made me laugh so hard my mom
thought I was choking on something. Though TV wasn't
the beginning of it. Mon says that ever since I was a
little kid I'd always laugh when someone else got hurt
instead of seeing if they were okay. So you can see
why when Sam tripped through the door that I ended up
laughing at him while he tried to compose himself. He
smiled a sheepish smile as he stumbled forward and
fell into the chair.
"Hey there," he says as if he hasn't just put on a
show for me involving the door and him. I've always
admired Sam's ability to be such a klutz and keep on
walking.
"Sup?" All right, it's been three days since I first
woke up and talked to Leo and Donna. And in that time,
I've seen Leo twice and Donna five times. She's not
sitting here like last time, nor does she seems to be
losing sleep over this whole situation. I don't want
to sound egotistic, but why the hell isn't she
worrying about me? Was that a one-time thing and will
never happen again? Maybe its not that she's here or
not, but that her waiting up for me means...
She doesn't care for me anymore.
I'm sure she still cares about me, but I'm afraid its
digressed from being good friends to being just people
who work with each other. Either way, I have to get to
the bottom of this. Sam seems to have noticed my
flight into a fantasy world and leans closer towards
me.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. Like I haven't heard
that one before. I sill feel like a steamroller
decided to take a trip over me a few times.
"A little sore." He smiles.
"I'm glad." I scoff at his comment.
"You're glad?"
"Yup. Yesterday you said you felt horrible. This is
definitely an improvement."
"I said that?" I asked. I seriously don't remember
saying I felt horrible yesterday, and since I'm not on
any heavy medications, I am very able to recollect the
conversations I've had lately.
"Yeah, don't you remember? You said it when you were
talking to Donna." Donna? She didn't come to see me
yesterday. Of all the people I've seen, I remember
Donna the most. Every word of our conversations and
everything. But I didn't see her yesterday, I remember
because I was very sad as a result of it.
"I didn't see Donna yesterday."
"Josh, she was in here for seven hours yesterday." My
look must have said something because Sam regards me
with wide eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"She wasn't here."
"God, Josh," said Sam, leaning back in his chair. "The
poor woman has been in here more than anyone and all
you can say is that she wasn't here? That's low, even
for you." He starts to get up, and I try my hardest to
reach out for his arm, but end up pulling something in
the attempt and let out a yelp. Sam pauses in putting
on his coat to look at me, his blue eyes holding mixed
emotions.
"I'm not – I'm – " Pausing, I let out a few coughs and
shake my head at his advances to help. "I'm so
confused," I whisper. Sam's coat is on but he's still
standing in my room. "I honestly don't remember her
being here ever. Heck, I don't remember seeing many
people at all." Sam's moved closer but hasn't taken a
seat.
"You've been on a lot of medication lately." Leave it
to Sam to be the innocent idealist. He's so gullible
sometimes it's a wonder he's in politics. I knew he'd
see it my way and understand instead of getting mad
and leaving with us angry at each other. That's why
he's my best friend. He's the best friend a guy can
have and I often wonder why he sticks around me. Same
thing with Donna.
"I guess."
"Cheer up, you get to leave in three days," he smiles.
"And spend another three weeks at home," I retort.
"It could be worse." I snort.
"Hey, what did the they do anyways?" I've been curious
about this for days. Everyone keeps saying it wasn't
as complicated as the last time, and they're letting
me out soon, so what the hell did they do?
"What did they do?" Sam repeats, confused.
"Yeah, the surgery," I clarify.
"Oh!" Sam exclaims in understanding. "They made a
small incision and cleared away the scar tissue. Took
about two hours."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Anyway, I've got a thing," he says pointing
towards the door. I nod the best I can and smile. "See
ya later," he adds before making his way out the door.
After he's gone, I looked towards the ceiling,
admiring the pattern placed up there. If only I could
see more of it since the lighting in here is way too
bright for anyone's eyes. And they call this a place
where people get better.
After I was released the last time, I couldn't see in
the dark for a week. Seriously, I couldn't see when
all the lights went out. Normally I can see just a
little bit with the light coming off various
electronic devices in my room. But after staying in
one of these places for a while, light was burned into
my eyes and I couldn't see without a lot of it there
to help me. Kind of like I build up a tolerance to
light.
I have to get out of here.
**
At that time, I felt like I was in a parallel
universe. I didn't remember a single visit from anyone
other than Sam, who made it a point to arrive at
exactly 2 o'clock every afternoon to tell me how
things were going at the office and such, the latest
gossip, and anything else he'd picked up. Of course,
in the words of Toby, there is something kind of
freakish about him. True, he's my best friend, but
damn, he's just, well, a walking contradiction.
Take this as an example: Sam is a stickler for dental
hygiene. Really. He has this really odd saying – I
don't really remember it since I don't pay attention
to him half the time – which he seems to say every
time someone has a dental problem. He trips over
things, and strikes me as someone who might know how
to actually cook. But here's the kicker: he's not only
one of the best writers I've ever known, but can be
the most masculine guy ever. Just get him drunk or
defensive. People make fun of him all the time. It's
sad.
Anyways, it's this eclectic nature that makes him my
confidante.
"Sam, I have a problem," I proclaim as he walks in at
exactly two. They took my clock away after the first
week, so I time everything by the programs on my TV.
Of course, today had to be the day I lost TV
privileges. They said I was watching it too much – I
argued that with an intellect as grand as mine, I
needed something to keep me occupied. The nurses
laughed at me and disconnected the TV.
"When don't you have a problem, Josh?" he asks, taking
a seat along side me.
"Ummm...when I'm asleep?" I answer in more of a question
than a declarative statement. Sam takes the bait and
laughs.
"I wouldn't be so sure of that. You talk in your
sleep," he responds. I what?
"I what?"
"Talk in your sleep. I've got to say, you have some
pretty interesting dreams."
"Okay, this is not good." I must have sounded serious
because Sam laughs and lays a hand on my arm.
"Don't worry, nothing too incriminating was said."
"Right."
"Anyway, you said you had a problem." Leave it to Sam
to get back on topic. I sigh, not knowing how to say
this without upsetting him like last time. He looks at
me expectantly, his blue eyes searching mine as if I
might betray what I'm thinking. Doesn't he realize how
long I've been in politics? While the eyes might be
the windows to the soul, politicians, or at least good
ones, have disconnected their eyes from their minds
and feelings. Although it might be said I have a
horrible poker face, I've been working on it. How else
do you think I've gotten senators to cry? They don't
see what's coming until it hits. I'm invincible, I'm
mysterious, I'm –
"It's about visitors, isn't it?"
I'm talking to my best friend. Okay, let's revise the
previous statements. I think Sam's the only person who
can see through all my defenses to the core of what
I'm thinking. That's why I keep him around.
"Yeah," I nod. Sam crosses his arms and leans back in
the chair, his glasses reflecting the Blinding Light
from Hell aka the lighting in the room.
"You still don't remember anyone else?"
"Sam, I don't remember what the hell happened to put
me in here."
"Truly? Because if this is the case, we need to talk
to another kind of doctor," he replies. He's right. I
have no idea what the hell is going on, and I don't
want anything bad to be a result of something out of
my control.
"You know what, I think that's normal, nothing to
worry about." Sam shifts in his seat. I know this
movement – he's hiding something. Yup, Sam Seaborn is
definitely going through an internal monologue to
decide if he should tell me or not. See, this best
friend thing works both ways.
"What aren't you telling me?" I ask. He looks up
surprised, then uncrosses his arms and takes off his
glasses.
"It's Donna, I'm worried about her." Donna?
Something's wrong with her? What the hell?
"What?" I think I said that loudly because someone in
the hallway turned to look in the room. I start
coughing again for a moment, Sam moves forward to give
me a sip of the water sitting on my side table. After
a minute they subside, a constant reminder that I have
to be careful.
"Calm down there, you'll hurt yourself," Sam says,
sitting back in the chair once again. "She's been
coming in here late at night when you're asleep."
"And?"
"She doesn't sleep that much. And it's starting to
effect her at work."
"So send her home."
"Josh, why do you think she only comes when you're
sleeping?"
"How does she even get in here that late? Don't
visiting hours end at eight?" Avoidance. It's a great
tactic.
"Wait, I tell you that Donna's losing sleep and you
ask how she got in here?"
"Maybe," I reply sheepishly. See? I knew I was going
to get Sam all angry with me because of this. He
glares at me the best way Sam can. This isn't very
intimidating in itself, but the idea of Sam glaring is
enough.
"Josh, she doesn't want to talk to you," he admits.
Donna doesn't want to talk to me? Why wouldn't she
want to talk to me? It can't be because she's mad at
me since she still comes to see me, right?
"Doesn't want to talk to me?"
"Apparently, she feels bad since she didn't see the
signs sooner."
"See the signs sooner?"
"Yeah."
"This was totally out of her control and she's blaming
herself?" Now I'm mad. How could she think something
like that? If anything, she should be mad at me. I was
the one who was keeping things from her and telling
her I was fine. After sitting here for hours alone
with absolutely nothing to do, one has the opportunity
to reflect on things. Here's the kicker: I wasn't
fine, and I knew it. I knew it all along, but I don't
like, nor do I want, other people's pity. It's just
not for me.
I didn't want Donna to look at me with those eyes,
those damn eyes that pity and worry about me. I want
to be normal again, I want to be able to go to work
and not have people fuss over my hours or worry about
what I'm eating. I don't hear CJ or Sam getting
hassled by anyone else about watching their blood
pressure.
"I want to be normal," I mutter under my breath.
"What?" Sam asks. I shake my head.
"Nothing."
"Alright. See if you can be awake tonight. Fix this."
"Yes, Dad."
**
I thought for hours about how I'm going to initiate a
conversation with Donna tonight. It's the oddest
thing, since I never before have had to think of how
to start anything with Donna. Usually these things
just start on their own and kind of snowball into
something bigger. But after hearing that she's losing
sleep and doesn't want to talk to me, I kind of
flipped out. I set my release date back by at least
three more days after yelling so much I couldn't
breath for a while.
That's the perfect thing to do, Josh, since she's
already feeling bad about everything.
I'm just hoping that the stories don't get around so
they tell her before she walks in.
Oh yeah, I found out how she's getting in. When I was
first brought in, she was sitting in here and
sleeping. Then she was leaving constantly to do some
work and try to get back in here before visiting hours
were over. The nurses felt so bad for her that they
bent the rules to allow her to come in after work.
Well, after they discovered that her hours weren't
normal working hours, they gave her a pass to come in
after hours.
Now, I'm supposed to be asleep. They give me sleeping
pills around nine o'clock and check that I take them
(one time you spit them out and they're on you every
time), so right about now I'm extremely drowsy.
Another great thing to do: be drowsy when you're
trying to talk to someone.
Out of the silence that blankets the hallways this
late at night I suddenly hear a pair of high heels
clicking on the tiled floor and her soft voice
greeting the nurses at the station. Please don't tell
her about this afternoon; please don't tell her about
this afternoon.
They're telling her about this afternoon.
I can hear her response – it's worried and angry at
the same time. Good. She should be angry with me. If
she's angry with me, I can deal with her. This quiet,
not-talking-to-me Donna is something I can't deal
with.
The nurses tell her everything is okay and usher her
to come see me. Great. The lights are out because I'm
too tired to turn them on, and I find that my eyes are
closed as her footsteps come closer, then enter the
room. I'm just going to rest my eyes and listen to her
yell about me yelling this afternoon.
What a wonderful lullaby.
"Oh, Joshua, what am I going to do with you?" she
asks. It is now that I realize how long it's been
since I last heard her voice. Sam was right, she
sounds very tired. I'd open my eyes to look at her,
but that would betray my cover, and that would be bad.
Yes, very, very, bad.
"You were yelling this afternoon?" she continues. "Why
the hell can't you take better care of yourself? You
know you have to be extra careful."
Here we go with the careful thingy. I don't wanna have
to be careful, I wanna be Josh. I wanna eat
Tupperware. Okay, I'm tired, can you tell? My inner
monologue is without, without, umm, words.
"And you're not. You're never going to listen to me. I
bet if you were awake right now, you'd say everything
is fine, that you're here against your will, and you
want to go back to work. Do you care about yourself or
the people around you?" She pauses for a moment, and I
feel her hand resting on mine. She rubs my hand
gently, her other hand on my arm.
I sometimes think about the summers I spent with my
family off the coast of Massachusetts. We had a
summerhouse up there and were able to get away
whenever my father got time off work. There's a
particular time I seem to recall now.
It had been a beaching day (okay, that does seem to
date my memory, doesn't it? Who calls it beaching
anymore?) and at the end of it I was tired and
sunburned, but still had the overenthusiastic smile on
my face, the one only kids can hold after a day like
that. My mother must of felt my smile was long overdue
and decided to let me continue playing until the sun
went down. I'd wandered off down the beach in a flight
of fancy and started playing in the waves. By the time
I knew I was out into the water too far, it was too
late, and I could feel myself falling under the water.
The last thing I remembered was the coldness of the
water and the icy grip it had on me.
I was brought back to reality by the slow and steady
rubbing on the back of my left hand. It was like an
angel had resuscitated me from the grips of the
unknown. It was later on that I had found out that my
mother was my angel, having heard my cries from down
the beach and come to my rescue.
That's what Donna's hand feels like now. Like the
angel who's bringing me back to a realm of
consciousness. Lifting me from whatever pit I've been
dwelling in and depositing me on the grassy land up
top that blends everything together in a blur of
happiness. There's one problem with this land, which
is why I've strayed so far from it.
There is no pain.
Don't give me that look, I think I've fallen asleep
and am thinking clearly again.
Look at it this way: if there is no pain, by what do
you gauge your other emotions? It's kinda like that
ying and yang thing. You have to have a balance of
good and evil in order for the world to operate
smoothly. Without pain, joy can't be enjoyed to its
fullest extent, happiness not elongated as the person
wishes to capture the feelings in a bottle for a rainy
day or a day when the pain is so great it leads to
despair.
Yes, Joshua-the-Philosopher is back again. I studied
philosophy for a while in school, just as a filler
class to make myself look better. My professor was so
impressed with some of my papers that he shunned me
after hearing of my path down the road to politics.
Donna's hand quickly pulls away from mine, the sudden
movement jolting me out of a false sleep, my original
intent remembered. Using her movement as an excuse to
be awake, I crack open my eyes and look over at her.
Her face is drawn, her eyes puffy with dark circles
under them. I move my hand on the hospital bed,
running it down my tired face.
"Did you have to wake me up?" I quip in a vain attempt
to raise her spirits. She looks like a deer caught in
headlights, not knowing what to say.
"Umm...sorry," she says suddenly, moving to stand.
Luckily, she's close enough for me to touch her, and I
lay a hand on her thigh.
"How are you doing?" I ask.
"How am I doing?" she echoes. I nod, pushing myself
into more of a seated position.
"Yeah. I haven't seen you around lately. Everything
okay?"
"Yes, everything's fine." Her response is so quiet
that I have to strain to hear her speak.
"Donna, you're a terrible liar." She looks up at me so
quickly, I think she might have whiplash. Her face has
twin tears sliding down it, almost cracking my heart
in half. Why is she so upset? "What?"
"It's all my fault. I should have seen this coming and
paid more attention to you. I should have-"
"I'm still confused, how is it your fault?"
"Huh?" I smile. She's lost her rhythm. That's the only
way to beat an irrational Donna Moss – disrupt her
rhythm, her pace, her pre-created speech. Sometimes I
think she should go help Toby and Sam with the
speeches, but she usually speaks in run-on sentences
and would cause Toby to pull out the little bit of
hair he has left.
"You seem to be the only person who believes this
entire mess is your fault."
"But it is!" she exclaims.
"C'mon, Donna," I soothe. Usually I'd argue with her
more but this isn't the time. Plus, I'm too tired to
argue (mark this day). "Stop this. Stop all this. Sam
says you've been coming while I'm asleep. I don't
blame you, no one does."
"Really?"
"Well, these drugs do tend to make people say things
they don't mean."
"Joshua!" She playfully swaps me on the arm. I smile
at her again, then turn my smile upside down.
"Now you have to go home and sleep," I order. She
opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand.
"I get a clean bill of health in two days. I can't
have you falling over from sleep deprivation."
"Yes, master."
"I could get used to that."
"Don't count on it."
**
"Why do you think people always have the last song
they hear on the radio stuck in their heads?" I ask
Sam three days after my talk with Donna. Sam shrugs as
he gets out of his sleek black car of the week – I
have no idea what kind it is. I finally got out of
that hole they call a hospital with orders of light
activity only for the next week. Like that will
happen. I plan on being back at work tomorrow, well,
planned on it. I hear I'm not allowed back in the
building until my light week is up. If the West Wing
didn't have the tightest security in the country, I
could sneak in.
Damn.
"I don't know," Sam responds to my question as we're
walking into my apartment. It's exactly how I left it
– messy yet neat. 'Controlled chaos' I call it. I can
find everything in a relatively quick time if I'm left
alone and have my divinity tools.
"C'mon. There has to be a reason," I encourage,
flopping down on my couch. Sam clears off the old
files sitting on my couch and sits down besides me.
"Maybe because there's nothing else after it."
"What?" I ask.
"Well, they don't remember the third song because they
heard more songs after it."
"I guess so."
"What's the last song you heard?"
"Huh?"
"What was the last song you've heard?" I look at him.
I have no idea. I've avoided listening to music for so
long that I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed
it. Remember what I said about pain and joy? I think
the same thing has happened with music and me. It
wasn't that I was afraid of the music; it was that I
was afraid of the fear itself. I let something as
intangible as fear grow into something so large, I
didn't remember what it was in the first place that I
was fearing.
"Josh?" Sam brings me out of my thoughts, his blue
eyes almost shooting through me.
"Music is communication," I say absently.
"What?"
"Music is a way to communicate beyond words, you know
that?"
"Sure, but what does that have to do with anything?"
"I haven't listened to music for moths."
"Really?"
"Yeah." We sit in silence for a while. I study my
ceiling. It's a nice ceiling; of course, I've studied
it a lot lately. Too much, I think.
"I'm going to head home," Sam says suddenly. I turn to
him and nod, noticing it's dark outside now.
"Yeah, no problem."
"Do you need anything before I go?"
"Turn on the radio, will you?"
"Sure?"
"Yeah, why not?"
Sam complies, turning on the radio to play softly
throughout the room as I sit here, looking out the
window. Did you notice how much the light from all
around pollutes the sky? I used to love stargazing,
heck; I used it as a method of relaxation. Now I can't
even see them over all the light around me.
See the things you miss when you take away the
extremes? This fear overtook me so that it monopolized
my life. I had too much ying and no yang. I unbalanced
everything to the point that something had to be
presented to me in the bluntest way possible by the
words of my closest friends. That was the only way I'd
listen. Heh, I'm too stubborn for my own good.
If music is communication, then maybe my avoidance of
music impaired me in the social aspects as well. The
minute I stopped listening to music was the moment I
stopped talking to people.
As the sweet sounds of the radio sweep over me, I
laugh.
Next week, Donna's is going to be barraged with the
Last Song Syndrome again. And this time around,
nothing's gonna stop me from enjoying everything in
life there is for me to enjoy. Isn't music wonderful?
So how crazy do you think I am?
I'd love to keep chatting, but I've got a TV to
deprogram and a radio alarm to befriend again.
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