“Thick Black Hair”

The use of insulin to induce a coma stems back to 1927 in Vienna by Manfred Sakel. His research into this produced strange results, and has long since fallen from popularity, if for no other reason than the use of a coma to treat mental illness is at the very least incredibly dangerous, and at its worst, fatal. This is the second piece I have received from the Unknown Author, and despite my efforts I have still been unable to find where the transcript was sent from, nor any information on the writer themselves.

“She had thick black hair, and when she smiled I found myself smiling back. Her eyes were a deep green, and when she talked, I always stopped speaking. Time passes every year and deep down I still believe that if I wish it hard enough, I will see her face again.

I met her years ago, a chance meeting at a local coffee shop. She ended up ordering the same thing, and it ended up getting us talking. We both had plans that day, but canceling them seemed to be the only reasonable thing to do. She smiled and I couldn't help but smile back, and within a few days we shared our first kiss.

A short while later, she began to get sick. She didn't have family, so I let her stay at my place. I knew I was letting it move fast, but the news of her health didn't improve. Sometimes things happen like that, an apparent trauma on the horizon that caused us to try and squeeze in every single second with each other.

Weeks went by, and her condition continued to keep getting worse. The doctors were baffled, and despite their best efforts, I struggled as I watched her skin becoming tight against her bones, and her eyes began to glaze over. She said that she could only see me, and that was enough for her. But despite myself, I could barely manage to play along.

Her teeth were falling out, and her skin became blotchy. Still, her smile would mesmerize, and I would bring her home chocolates that she would let settle in her mouth, enjoying her pleasure as I silently watched. Soon though, she was moved to a hospital, and her diet prevented me from bringing her anything at all. The stay seemed to do her good, and though the doctors still didn't know what was wrong, they were hopeful that what they were doing something right.

Then, one night, she was laying there peacefully. I had stayed the night, as I had done a great deal over the last couple of months. Normally you aren't allowed, but her lack of family lead the nurses there to sympathize with my desire to stay. She awoke quite suddenly, and though she wasn't looking at me, she found my hand on the bed. When she turned to me, she looked not at me, but past me. I was used to this; her sight having degraded to the point where it was hard for her to see anything further than a couple of feet away.

She mouthed something at me and squeezed my hand, though in the dark I could not make it out. Then I felt her grip loosen, as the monitor displayed a line.

They struggled for nearly an hour, trying to keep her alive. For minutes her heart would beat steady, only to flat line again. The ups and downs were terrible, and by the time they declared her dead I was completely out of tears, my head throbbing, my eyes on fire.

She was buried on the following Sunday. I was lucky enough to have my family along to support me. They didn't know her well enough, but they knew the lengths I went to be there for her. It was a short ceremony, and I was the only one who said anything outside of the preacher. His was what you would expect, speaking about how unfortunate it was to know her for so short of a time. I thought I could have added more than that, but in the end I couldn't think of much else to say.

Weeks went by, and my life began to settle back into its original routine. But I soon began to develop nervous ticks and a deep feeling of anxiety that would not go away. After a while, it was suggested I try therapy. After a couple of weeks, it became clear that it wasn't working. If anything things got worse, and I began to be plagued by night terrors. Eventually these things began to affect my normal life, and despite numerous treatments things only got harder.

Finally, the doctor had an idea that they thought just might work. I agreed, willing to do anything. He warned me that the process might kill me, and I told him that living like this would likely kill me all the same. He also warned me that the procedure was illegal, and that it hadn't been done in years. Again I insisted. So he set up a bed in a nearby house, one that hadn't been used in a while. I laid down, and he inserted the needle.

He called it insulin-coma therapy, and within minutes I slipped under. But I did not sleep. I wished to see her again, more than anything, and I got my wish. The doctor said that the process lasted twenty-four hours, but it felt much shorter. She appeared like I wanted, looking the way she did when we first met at the coffee shop. She smiled and I smiled back, and she said she had been waiting for me. I felt fatigue like I had never felt before, as she drew close and whispered in my ear those words I failed to hear in the hospital.

“Just close your eyes, and I am with you.”

I awoke soon after, and the doctor asked how I was feeling. I felt rested, and was relieved to find the sickness was gone completely, leaving me ready to experience life again. For now, my love is sleeping. He is happy enough where he is. But my life, I still think is worth living, though from time to time it bothers me the sacrifices I had to make. I close my eyes and smile, delighted when he smiles back. Then I open my eyes, and see the world in a whole new way.”