Rebirth

And Gwen? This is where she gets what's coming to her for being a lying, cheating slut, right? This is where her life becomes miserable, and she has to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that she's a rotten bitch who ruined a good man. Right?

Or maybe the two of us work things out! Joe leaves her, she comes crawling back, wages a campaign of seduction and apologies to win my affections again, and we have our children, our happily ever after?

Or maybe she married Joe, and I cuckold him! Wouldn't that be a twist of fate!

Yeah...

No. Because that's not what fucking happened. Because life isn't a God damned fantasy.

I never saw Gwen again after that last afternoon. I never heard from her or Joe. There were times over the years that I thought about looking her up, but I never did. I needed to move forward, I told myself, and looking back wouldn't help. I did hear about them from time to time; it was inevitable, really. They had gotten married, an event that I celebrated by getting drunk by myself. But after a couple of years, they faded entirely from my life. I didn't know if they were still in the same state, never mind the same city!

As for me? No, I didn't rise. This tragedy did not make me reexamine my life and allow me to grow as a man. I fell.

I fell hard.

No, my boss was not understanding, and despite the sympathies of our HR department, I was 'let go' for performance issues four months later.

No, there was no bevy of hot, single women waiting to snatch me up. Oh, there were a number of sympathetic lady friends! But that's all it was -- friends and sympathy. Most of them were happily married anyway, so there was nothing on that score. To those who weren't married, I was damaged goods and used ones at that.

The rest of the details aren't important. Suffice to say that for the next fourteen years, I bounced around from job to job and from state to state. I stopped gaming, stopped socializing. All social media accounts were deleted. I used a prepaid flip-phone, and I rarely went out. Dating was right out of the question; I didn't trust anyone. For fourteen years, all I did was work and go home to wherever I was living at the time. At home, I ate a little, read a little, watched TV, and slept. In the middle of the night, I would take long, meandering walks. I was a grumpy, sour asshole.

Life had hurt me, is what it was. And I wanted to hurt it back, so I did so in thousands of petty ways.

AnnaBelle wasn't always sure where I was. I withdrew from her, too. Watching my sister and her loving, loyal spouse and beautiful children was too much for me to bear. Every Christmas, I sent her and Duncan as large a check as I could manage to put towards their kids. I didn't even know how many they had after a while! That was about all I could manage.

Can you imagine that? A decade and a half of merely existing? No family, no friends? I wasn't living, and I was only barely surviving. My weight dropped to the point where you could see my ribs. My clothes were from thrift shops and second-hand stores, and I wore them to last. I hated life, I hated living, and I hated myself. The world didn't owe me anything, I believed, so I didn't owe it anything either.

Suicide was never far from my mind. Maybe my ex-wife hadn't meant to cause me such pain, but the humiliation lingered for years. My self-confidence as a man and as a person had been stripped away by her lies. It haunted me for years, even after I'd put her mostly out of my mind. Honestly, I think the only reason I didn't off myself was that it was too much trouble to bother with; I didn't have enough spoons left at the end of the day. I was dead inside anyway. My body just hadn't stopped walked around.

And then one day, without any warning and to my great relief, I finally died.

***

I was in Maine, unemployed again, and I was out of God-damned milk.

At least one of my meals each day (not necessarily breakfast) consisted of nothing but cereal or oatmeal, cheap foods that took no effort to make. They were usually unsweetened with maybe a bit of fruit if I was feeling like treating myself. But a lifetime of habit required milk. So in the middle of a freezing February night, I bundled up and trudged out on foot to the corner convenience store.

At three in the morning, no one else was out on the street. The wind was howling fiercely all around me, a sure sign that a blizzard was starting. The streetlights overhead cast an eerie haze into the cold air, and lack of any noise save for the harsh gusts past my ears added to the sensation that I was the only person in an abandoned world.

I liked it. I was a ghost walked the streets of a city that was cold and empty of life. It was fitting.

Given the weather, I half expected the corner store to be closed when I got there and was ready to turn around in bitter resignation. The universe, I fully believed, would be cruel enough to deny me a simple half-gallon of milk.

To my mild surprise, the store was open! The neon signs blinked erratically, offering beer and lottery tickets and an ATM. Most likely the staff had ended up being trapped there by the storm. So long as they had milk, I didn't care. Their loved ones and friends would still be there when it all blew over. That was more than I could say for myself.

Without any thought other than just getting my half-gallon and going home, I opened the door, walked in.

I was struck by three invisible fists: one in my chest, one in my belly, and one in my leg.

My legs folded under me. I took out a wire magazine rack as I crashed onto my side. I didn't feel any pain at first, but it then radiated throughout my upper torso; it became hard to breathe. A line of fire had scorched its way across my thigh, but it was nothing compared to the blossoming agony within my ribs! My lungs didn't want to work right! Inhaling was a struggle, and exhaling brought forth a sickly gurgling sound that came from my chest as much as through my throat. My mouth filled with a rich, cloying, coppery taste.

Wits scattered, I tried to piece together what was wrong with me. Then I remembered the gunshots. It was funny that I didn't remember hearing them until after I was already down on the ground.

Struggling to move, I brushed at the front of my coat where the pain was the worst. My palm came back sticky, hot, and red.

I smiled to myself as I lay there on the floor. Dropping my bloody hand, I closed my eyes and smiled in contentment. It was over. It was finally over. I wanted to weep in relief. There was a laminated DNR card in my wallet, which meant that my chances of surviving this were slim.

Good.

There was screaming around me, people shouting, more loud bangs... A robbery, I belatedly realized. Someone had been trying to rob the store when I walked in, and for whatever reason, they shot me. It was a stupid, pointless attack, and it would be a stupid, pointless death.

But that was OK. It would do. I felt bad for my sister, but AnnaBelle was tough. She really didn't need her loser of a big brother around, not when she had Duncan and the kids. No one else was going to miss me since I didn't have any friends to speak of. I didn't think of Gwen or if it would affect her. She had been gone from my life for so long that I didn't bother to think about her at all.

The burning pain in my gut and chest began to expand, engulfing me in wet, raging agony. I should have been panicking at that point! My brain's survival instincts should have kicked into overdrive, adrenaline surging as the fear of death pumped through me!

Nothing came, though. I had been miserable for so long that it had warped me. My sense of the immediate was fading. My eyelids were getting heavier. Which was good, I reasoned, because everything around me seemed so bright! I was floating away into nothingness like I was going to sleep.

The world around me became vague sensations and distant sounds. People were talking to me, asking me questions; I tried to wave them off and tell them to go away, but they didn't seem to take any notice. Rising and falling, moving, coldness, flashes of light, an alarm clock going off constantly, more bright lights, warmth, more voices, my body being prodded and moved.

"Just get on with it," I remember croaking to someone. I wanted them to stop poking at me and just let me die in peace.

"He's responsive!" I heard someone shout. Then, close to me: "Sir, can you tell me your name? Do you know where you are?"

The questions were annoying. I again feebly tried to wave off whoever it was away and let myself float further away.

More shouting, something about blood pressure. "We're losing him!"

"S'alright," I mumbled. I had drifted almost completely away from the pain. "S'alright... Lost myself years ago."

I don't think they heard me. Idly, I wondered if anyone would bother with a tombstone. My last regret was that I hadn't bothered to let anyone know that it should be something simple and small and placed in just the right spot that people would constantly trip over it.

And then it was over.

***

"But she always says crap like that," someone was saying with a hint of exasperation. "I mean, that's Sarah, right? I've told you before about her."

I wanted to agree. Why I wanted to agree and who the hell Sarah was, I didn't have a clue! At the same time? Yeah, it made sense. I just didn't know why. It was like I was in the middle of a conversation but had forgotten the first half of it.

"Anyway," the voice continued conversationally, "Eddie, that's the bouncer, he's got to throw this poor schmuck out despite the fact that he likes the guy. Not that Eddie will ever tell him that he 'likes him' likes him because Eddie is so shy that it's adorable, but still, he's got a job to do, right? And the guy's date is still throwing up in the bathroom!"

That part didn't make sense to me. I thought that Eddie had a crush on Sarah, so this was all news to me! Now if only I knew who the fuck Eddie was! And Sarah!

I managed to open my eyes. It was another dropped ceiling, this one different from the convenient store. For one thing, it was clean.

Sounds other than the high, chatty voice began to register in my brain: people passed in a hallway, beeping, a raspy breathing sound, and a woman's voice over some sort of speakers. It was a place that I should have known, but I couldn't find the word for it in my head.

The person speaking was next to me somewhere, fairly close. I could feel the warmth of a hand holding mine. I wanted to turn my head and say something, but my neck refused to cooperate. A blockage in my throat kept me from doing anything other than issuing a low moan.

Gradually, I forced my eyes to move to the left so that I might see out of the corners. It was taxing! Whoever thought that it might take so much energy to look around! Confusion took hold as I came to realize that I was in a hospital room...

... and a clown was holding my hand.

She was a very pretty clown, to be honest. She wasn't your stereotypical fake nose and frizzy wig type of clown. Beneath the white pancake, she looked to be in her late twenties, early thirties. Colorful spirals swirled around her rosy cheeks. The tip of her small nose was painted a bright cheery red that matched her lips, and her hair was a cascade of vibrant purple curls that fell about her shoulders. It looked too silky and smooth to be a wig. She was wearing a white lab coat, but underneath was a dress that looked as though it had been through an explosion at a crayon factory. I couldn't see past her waist, but I was pretty sure she had to be wearing massive red shoes to complete the ensemble.

She continued rambling on as I took in the sight of her. I had lost track of the conversation in favor of looking at her.

I started to lose consciousness again. My eyelids were getting heavy again, and my whole body felt numb and at the same time. But I didn't want to sleep! It felt like I had slept for years! I wanted to lie there, looking at her, listen to her, and feel her gloved hand in mine for a little while longer. I didn't know why there was a clown in the hospital. I couldn't remember why I was in a hospital to start with! But I was glad that she was there, whoever she was.

I tried to speak again, but once more the blockage only allowed for a small groan to escape. Something hard was in my mouth and throat. I tried again for a louder noise to get her to notice me, and I attempted to squeeze her hand to let her know I was there.

My fingers barely obeyed.

The gesture must have felt like the lightest of breezes through her gloves. I wasn't sure whether she had heard me or registered the faint change in pressure, but either way, she gasped in shock. Her painted lips formed the cutest little "o" as she jumped to her feet and leaned over me. Eyes that were green as emeralds went wide in surprise. She stared at me with a joy that I hadn't seen in anyone's expression for years.

"You're awake! Oh, my God, you're awake! How long have you been..." The clown girl let the question trail off in favor of taking action. "Hold on, let me get the nurse! Can you stay awake? Try to stay awake, OK?"

Her other hand reached for a white bit of plastic hanging by the bed, and she began to stab at it frantically. Somewhere in the hallway, a chiming tone could be heard. The hand that was still in mind squeezed my fingers gently.

"It's going to be OK," she reassured me with a relieved smile. "It's going to be OK, just stay awake!"

I would have nodded if I could have. Instead, I gave her a long slow blink and tried to squeeze her hand in return.

Her painted smile became wider.

Then there were people in white lab coats and nurses scrubs everywhere, ushering the clown girl away and checking machines. A middle-aged man in blue scrubs was peering at my face with an urgent expression.

"Sir, can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me."

It was lift trying to lift boulders with my eyelashes, but I complied slowly. It made him smile.

"Good! Now, you're probably confused. That's perfectly normal." His reassurances would have made more sense if I knew why it was perfectly normal. "I'm Dr. Gorowski. You're in the hospital, and you have been for some time. Your body is weak and not going to respond too well right now. You've also got a tube down your throat to help you breathe, so don't try to speak. You won't be able to. It's going to be frustrating, but try to be patient and relax."

The grizzled medico shook his head as though in admiration. "You have no idea how lucky you are, believe me."

There were tubes going into me. How I hadn't realized until that moment was beyond me, but I could feel things in my nose and mouth and throat. My right arm was weighed down with more tubes going from my inner elbow to up somewhere behind me. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, and the whole of my body didn't feel 'right.' How was any of that lucky??

"Hang in there. I know you've probably got a lot of questions, and we'll get you some answers. Just be patient. It's going to take time."

Foggy as my mind was, I wanted to ask him if he honestly thought I was going anywhere. I blinked twice at him again to show my understanding, and he gave me a sharp nod in return.

Reality was less than tenuous for me. I was conscious most of the time, but I wasn't exactly present. The medical staff was asking me questions and doing tests of some kind, but I couldn't retain any of what was happening in my mind. Now and then, I would glance towards the door to see if the clown girl might return. She didn't, but looking for her gave me something to do.

Thinking about her also helped distract me, too. Laying there in bed, I could only ponder who she was and why she had been there holding my hand. One hears about clowns visiting sick kids in the hospital; costumed superheroes are known to make appearances, too. I had to wonder if Spiderman or Wonder Woman might stop by next! Knowing my luck, it would be Deadpool. But I was hardly a child!

Nurses and doctors alike came and went, much like my sense of time. I slept and woke, slept and woke, and a gnawing impatience began to grow inside of me as I recovered. Memories slowly returned to me. I could remember going to the store to get the milk, and I could remember falling, but I couldn't remember actually being shot. I didn't recall the faces of anyone else in the store, but I could quite clearly recall laying on the floor and seeing that Hershey candy bars were on sale, buy one get one free; Reese's Peanut Butter Cups were below the Kit Kats.

It was a few days after I'd reached consciousness that the clown girl made her reappearance. At least, I thought it was a few days. It was still hard to tell. But I was sitting in a less-reclined position than before when she shyly entered, and my awareness of my surroundings was a little more stable than before. The breathing tube had also been removed (an unpleasant process that made me glad I was unconscious when it went in!). I couldn't speak yet, but I could move a little.

"Hey." She waved shyly from the doorway, looked around in the hallway behind her, then crept in. She was wearing the same outfit as before. What was surprising was that she was indeed wearing huge red shoes, but instead of the traditional clown boats, they were outrageous high-heels. They were like stilts! That's when I realized that she was actually much shorter than I had first assumed..

Then again, everyone is taller to the guy who's lying down.

She gingerly sat down in the chair next to me and took my hand again. I'd gained a little strength back. Not much. I was able to grip her fingers a little and give her a small smile. Turning my neck to keep her in focus was difficult, but I managed.

"I'm really not supposed to be in here," she confessed, "but I wanted to come and see how you were doing." She rolled those big, green eyes of hers. I was always a sucker for big eyes. "Sure, while you were in a coma, they didn't care and they called it 'therapy.' Now that you're awake, they call it 'getting underfoot.' Nurses, huh? Go figure."

She reached over with her other hand and pushed a stray lock of hair off of my forehead. It was a strangely intimate gesture. She seemed more than willing to carry the conversation for both of us, so I let her. It was nice to listen. Her voice was high and sweet and so very animated!

"Sooo... I don't know if you remember, but I'm Cotton." She bit her lower lip. It must have been damned good makeup because it didn't smudge! "Do you remember that? God, I must have talked to you for hours the past couple of weeks. I've got no idea what you might have actually heard. I thought that if I just kept talking to you, you might hear me."

Cotton chuckled and waggled her head side-to-side in an idiotic fashion. "Silly me, I know. I'm a better performance clown than a therapy clown, but I had to try."

I swallowed, wincing at the raw stretching of my esophagus as I did so. I couldn't talk or write, but I forced my hand to turn in her grip until my finger could reach the palm of her hand. I had to know and there was only one way to ask. With a herculean effort, I traced a single letter across the fabric of her glove.

Y

The clown girl looked taken aback for a moment as she realized how much effort that must have cost me. She was bright, too, she picked up on what I was asking in a flash. She smiled, a little sadly, and took my hand into hers again.

"Because there wasn't anyone else here for you."

And that's how I met Cotton.

***

Or rather, that's how I met Cindy. Cotton was both her last name and her clown name. Originally, she told me, she was going to go with Cottontail the Clown because she liked the sound of it, but she really wasn't all that fond of rabbits.