BEFORE, THEN, NOW

  S. E. GREEN

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Books by S. E. Green

  Copyright © S. E. Green, 2024

  The right of S. E. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted per the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

  1

  Current Day

  Coma.

  That’s what I’m in. But I don’t know how that can be so.

  I can hear—hushed voices, beeping machines.

  I can smell—antiseptic, mild perfume.

  I can feel—the needle in my left arm, chilled fingers on my face.

  I know who I am—Benjamin (Benny) Thorton, twenty-one, college student.

  But I can’t speak. Or move. Or see. Believe me, I’ve tried all three. I’ve tried to separate my lips. To pry my eyelids open. To make my vocal cords vibrate. Yet nothing happens.

  I’ve been this way for twelve hours. At least that’s what the people in my room say.

  Coma.

  Someone just said that word again.

  How long does a coma last? In some instances, maybe years, right? I don’t know.

  Sounds of multiple shoes move across the bare floor, one squeaking and the other a soft tread. The door opens, then closes.

  Silence.

  Someone breathes out. Mom, is that you? I wait for her to speak, to touch me, but nothing happens.

  I dig around in my brain, searching, pleading for clarity. How am I here? What’s the last thing I remember? I recall going to my girlfriend Shauna’s dorm. We needed to talk. I received a text from my best friend Dean: I’m sorry. I remember Mom’s face when I—

  “Benny?” a young female speaks. Her voice is melodic and familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Don’t die. Please don’t die.”

  When I was seventeen, I almost cut the tip of my index finger off. It stayed attached, just barely. It happened while I was trimming the bushes at my house with an electric trimmer. For a brief second I looked away, and there my finger went. There was so much blood, but oddly no pain.

  With my finger wrapped in a towel, I drove myself to the emergency room. They ushered me back, and that was when the pain started. Perhaps the adrenaline of the moment kept me focused and agony free, but once it began, my God, was it excruciating.

  Do you know how many nerve endings exist in a fingertip? Three thousand. I looked it up.

  The doctor gave me a shot in the finger to numb it so that she could sew things back together. The shot hurt worse than the pain. I yelled “FUCK!” so loudly that two doctors and three nurses came running.

  I say all of this because I have never felt pain like that since, until now.

  “FUCK!” I try yelling that word but nothing comes out. Instead, it sticks inside of me, bouncing around like a pinball.

  Unlike my finger where the pain radiated outward, this agony radiates inward. Everywhere. I don’t know what happened to cause my body so much suffering. I’d ask but my lips won’t move. They’re so wide open my jaw hurts with the object—I assume is a ventilator—pushing its way inside my body.

  “Oh my goodness,” a raspy female voice says. “How horrible. What happened to him?”

  “Not sure yet,” another female voice answers, this one older. “I just got here. His name is Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin,” the raspy one says, moving closer to me, “my shift just started. I’m going to take good care of you.” She touches my hand and inwardly I flinch. Hers is ice cold.

  The two women move around the room. One set of hands coasts over me, checking my body here and there. I wish they’d talk some more. I want to know what’s wrong with me.

  “There,” the older one says. “That should make you feel better.”

  Oh, she’s right. That does make me feel better. Warmth flows through my veins. I sink into it, relishing relief it offers. My head feels fuzzy. If I could, I’d smile and thank her. Even though I’m lying down, my body sways. I don’t know what she gave me, but I want more of it. I no longer feel pain.

  “Any family?” the raspy one asks.

  “Not sure. I’ll have to check the visitation log.”

  The door opens. A male voice says, “Shauna Sandford is here. She’s his wife.”

  My wife?

  “We’re just finishing up,” the older nurse says. “She can come on in.”

  Female voices curl through the air, floating around inside my head. They merge with the fuzziness, trying to form a semblance of words and sentences, but not quite clicking. I focus hard, eventually giving up and drifting toward the oblivion of the medicine.

  Some time later I drift back, only slightly experiencing the pain from earlier. Someone coughs. Then he, or she, releases a heavy sigh.

  “They say you can hear me,” Shauna speaks. “I… don’t know what to say.”

  She moves closer. Her hair touches my cheek. I think she’s going to kiss me, but she doesn’t. I smell her breath. It doesn’t smell good. That’s the one thing about Shauna that I don’t adore—her breath oftentimes borders halitosis. One time I delicately pointed it out, and she didn’t talk to me for nearly a week.

  Shauna doesn’t move. What is she doing? Why is she leaning over me like that? She sighs again. It sounds loud. I wish I could pinch my nostrils to block out her breath.

  Then a sudden realization moves through me, circulating, building, filling me with anger.

  I’m mad at my wife, yet I have no clue why.

  2

  A Few Days Ago

  Istare at the unmoving ceiling fan, listening to my sound machine, willing my alarm to go off. Last I looked I still had ten minutes. Under the weighted blanket, I roll over, curling around the body pillow that’s supposed to help me sleep.

  Rain patters my windows, as it’s been doing all night. With the hurricane circling in the Atlantic, we’re supposed to get this for days to come.

  Oh, joy.

  I consider getting up, but no matter how quiet I am, somehow my mom knows. Then she’ll worry I’m not sleeping—which I’m not, but that’s not the point. The point is she’ll buy me yet one more thing that never works for my chronic insomnia.

  Yeah, I’ve done it all. Hypnosis tracks. Brown noise. White noise. Black noise. Pills. Counting sheep. Breathing exercises. Journaling. Hot bath. Herbal remedies. THC.

  Nothing brings me sleep.

  It could be worse.

  On the nightstand rests my phone, plugged in and charging. I power it up. Across the room, an air dispenser releases a squirt of lavender—yet another thing that’s supposed to help.

  My phone lights up with a text from Shauna that came in late last night.

  Shauna: can’t do lunch, sorry.

  Shauna’s been canceling on me a lot lately. I text her back a thumbs up, trying not to take it personally. I don’t want to be “that” boyfriend.

  My alarm chirps. Finally.

  In the bathroom, I turn the shower on. While I wait for it to heat up, I brush my teeth and survey myself in the mirror.

  I look bad.

  With bloodshot eyes, lifeless skin, and stooped shoulders, I look every bit the insomniac that I am. What I’d give for several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Instead, I pop a couple of caffeine pills. I can’t afford to fall asleep in class.

  Shower and shave behind me, Visine, and with pomade in my short dark hair, I pass by Mom’s room, finding it empty with the same freshly-laundered clothes hanging on her closet door that have been there for two days. I locate her in the living room, stretched out on the couch watching TV.

  I force my eyes alert and tall body upright. I even put a chirp to my voice. “Good morning!”

  Still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she smiles. “Don’t you look rested.”

  “Must be the new addition to my room. Thank you for the lavender.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “How about eggs for breakfast?” I ask, wishing instead I had a Red Bull and apple fritter.

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m in the mood for eggs as well.” She goes back to her show and I move to the kitchen, prepping coffee and putting a skillet on the range.

  I note a grocery list pinned beneath a magnet on the refrigerator. It’s been there for a few days. Guess I’d better get it taken care of. I remove it and place it in my pocket, telling her, “I’ll tackle groceries later.”

  “Aren’t you sweet? Thank you. You know I have a lot going on today.�

��

  Translation: She’ll put on that outfit hanging on her closet door, and then spend an hour opening the front door, then closing it. Opening, then closing. Opening, then closing. Hell, she may even make it out to the front porch, but not likely. The one highlight of her day will be an Amazon delivery.

  I wish she’d enroll in grocery service, but she doesn’t like the way they “pick out produce.”

  I serve Mom scrambled eggs and we eat together, watching the morning news. Mom’s green station wagon sits in the same spot as always in the driveway with my well-used old Toyota behind it. I always fear it won’t start, but it does every time.

  I take my time driving to campus.

  I graduate in a few months with a degree in finance. I don’t know what I’m going to do. There are only so many jobs in my small hometown of Saint Augustine, Florida. I can’t live with Mom forever, but every time I broach the subject, she launches into a full-on panic attack.

  Like last night. I told her I want to propose to Shauna, and before I got much else out she started crying and begging me not to leave her. So, I promised I wouldn’t. It’s what I always do. My whole life centers around Mom’s mental well-being.

  I cruise through Dunkin Donuts, get that apple fritter, make a stop at CVS for more caffeine pills, and then drive the rest of the way to campus. I park under the only palm tree fat enough to provide shade.

  September heat snakes around me as I eat the fritter and walk toward the business school. Off to the right sits the education building with its attached preschool. Most of Shauna’s classes are in there. For a woman who doesn’t particularly like children, I’ve always found it odd that she’s an education major. She says it’s apples and oranges. You don’t have to like kids to teach them. Doesn’t make sense to me, but who am I to question her reasoning? I don’t like numbers and I’m in finance—job security and all that.

  Soothing air conditioning coats my skin as I walk through the business school’s lobby. I cut off to where a coffee cart sits and throw away the bag my apple fritter came in.

  “Hey, Benny. Usual?” the coffee cart girl greets me in her usual bright and cheery voice.

  I nod, wishing for the zillionth time that I knew her name. But we’re way past that period where I can innocently ask, Remind me what your name is?

  With my Red Eye drink—a regular hot coffee with an added shot of espresso—in hand, I slowly take the stairs up to the second floor. As I do, I sip my beverage, loving how it cuts the sugar of the fritter. I pause and glance idly out the wall of windows that overlook the education building and the campus beyond. I’m not sure why I stop. It’s certainly not in hopes I’ll get a glimpse of Shauna. Her first class comes later in the morning.

  No, I stop because an awareness buzzes along my skin. Something’s not right. From my vantage point on the stairwell, I peer out the wall of windows, my gaze carefully roaming over others moving across campus, students entering and exiting buildings, cars pulling in and out of lots…

  I freeze.

  There, in a small park on the other side of the education building, stands my mom staring at me.

  “Benny?”

  I jerk around, finding the coffee cart girl. With a smile, she hands me my credit card. “You left this.” I take it from her and am about to turn back to the windows when she says, “Um, I’m not sure if you’re still dating Shauna or not, but—”

  “I am. Yes.” I hold up the credit card. “Thanks for this.”

  “Oh…sure.” She backs away with an embarrassed smile. “See you around, I guess.”

  I turn back to the windows. But Mom is gone.

  3

  Childhood

  Cross-legged I sit on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the TV dinner I ate and licked clean, listening to Dad yell and to Mom cry.

  It’s like this every night.

  Sometimes things get thrown, but I’ve never seen him hit her. Not that that makes a difference. His words do as much damage. I don’t know why Mom stays with him. He’s an asshole. I wish he’d move on to the part of the evening where he drinks himself into a stupor.

  Yeah, my parents are nothing like my only friend, Dean’s. Mine don’t laugh and talk, and they never say I love you to each other.

  I wish Dean’s parents would adopt me, but then who would watch out for Mom? I always worry about her, but she seems so fine in the morning as she makes small talk and occasionally cooks me breakfast, which in my house means oatmeal in the microwave.

  There’s this kid at school whose parents frequently leave him home alone. I envy that kid. I’d give anything to be alone and not hear this every night.

  A siren echoes in the distance. I bet a neighbor called the cops. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  An object hits the other side of my wall, the one that butts up to my parents’ room. It doesn’t faze me.

  There’s a loud banging on our front door. With a sigh, I get to my feet and go to let the cops in. Maybe I’ll get lucky and this will be one of the nights they haul Dad off. Now and again that happens, and it’s the only night I get solid sleep.

  No such luck.

  After the cops leave, I crawl out my window and walk to Dean’s house.

  Dean and his parents left on vacation. I stood there earlier, observing as they excitedly planned the trip to Carlsbad Caverns, hoping beyond the universe that they would invite me to join them.

  They didn’t.

  My family never goes on vacation. Even if my parents decided to do one, I wouldn’t want to be a part of it. It would be more of the same old thing. No thank you.

  One whole week. That’s how long Dean and his parents will be gone and I’ll be here in their house, enjoying my own vacation.

  Do I have a spare key? Of course not. But I know where they keep it—in a fake piece of poop hidden under an oleander bush.

  Will my parents know I’m gone? That’s laughable.

  It only takes me five minutes. I find the fake poop and the key and make myself comfortable on Dean’s bed. I toast the air with my middle finger.

  Happy fuckin’ tenth birthday to me.

  4

  Current Day

  Long fingers with unkempt nails reach for me. The moon glints off of the nearly translucent skin as they emerge through the darkness. The hands draw closer. And closer…

  My still body lifts and floats, at first, as if invisible strings hold me in place. The strings snap. I fall fast, plummeting toward earth. Shades of dark streak pass. I scream so loudly that my throat hurts. My body hurtles toward the ground.

  I jerk awake. My heart races. I won’t be going back to sleep, not after that. I try to get out of bed, but I’m stuck in a different nightmare where a coma has rendered me mute and paralyzed. Because that’s the word a man is currently saying. Paralyzed.

  “We won’t know for sure until, or if, he wakes, but there is a good chance he will be paralyzed.”

  Silence.

  A clearing throat.

  “What is the chance he won’t wake?” Shauna asks.

  “It’s too soon to tell. It’s not even been twenty-four hours yet,” the man, who I assume is a doctor, responds. “He fell six stories. His injuries are significant. Internal bleeding, broken bones, cracked skull, fractured spine, bruises…”

  I fell six stories? That’s impossible. I live in a historical town where building codes prohibit anything taller than three stories. There are no six-story buildings.

  Wait, that’s not true. There is one building six stories tall that was built before the codes were created. It’s one of the oldest structures in our town. Shauna lives in that building.

  Buzz.

  “Do you need to get that?” the doctor asks.

  “No,” Shauna replies.

  “Has your husband been sad lately?” the doctor asks next.

  Silence. Then, “Um, a little upset, yes.”

  I have?

  “How long have you been married?” the doctor asks.

  “Not long. It’s brand new.”

  Buzz.

  “You can get that if you need to,” the doctor insists.

  “It’s fine,” Shauna tells him.

 

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