Anna by Beth Stafford (books that read to you TXT) 📕

She’s standing at the edge of the street, but for some reason she’s all alone. Everyone around seems to be giving her a wide berth, giving the impression that she’s Moses parting the Red Sea. She’s smiling at me, her hand outstretched. I rush to take it, and for the first time in a long time, I can feel her hand in mine.
    She’s my Anna, and yet she’s not. Her hair is dyed jet-black, and looks like she’s hacked at random sections of it with a pair of scissors. She’s clad in black jeans that are shredded all the way up the legs, a black singlet and black Converse sneakers that have silver studs glued to them.
    “You took your time!” she says, her eyes wide and rimmed with smudged eyeliner. “I have so much to show you.”
    “Why are we here?”
    “Where’s here?”
    “Where we are.”
    “New York?”
    “Yeah. Why are we in New York?”
    “I told you I wanted to go someplace! And here we are!”
    There’s so much I want to ask her, so much I want to say. More than anything I want to say how sorry I am, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words. Instead I pull her in for a long embrace, marvelling at how strong I feel. She smells like jasmine.
    “If you’re going to be a wuss I simply won’t be able to be around you,” she says, but the tone of her voice chides rather than stings.
    I pull myself away, taking my time to simply observe her. She starts to back away, tugging me along by the hand. Despite the fact she’s walking backwards, she seems to know exactly where she’s going.
    “Name one thing you’ve always wanted to do in New York,” she says, her eyes bright.
    “I’ve never really given it much thought,” I shrug, again marvelling that I can actually make solid, definable movements.
    She glares at me. “You are, without a doubt, the lamest person I have ever met.”
    She continues to tug me along the street, her jagged, onyx hair caught in the ceaseless onslaught of the cool, mid-afternoon breeze. She’s gripping my hand so tightly I can feel the soft rush of her pulse in my palm, pounding rhythmically to the beat of her heart. There’s a part of me that knows I’m dreaming, a part of me that knows I could wake up any moment, trapped again in the fleshly prison my body has become. And yet, I choose not to dwell on that. For now, I could very well be traipsing the streets of New York, Anna’s hand in mine. The impossibility of dreams doesn’t really matter when your reality is a waking nightmare.
    I’ve never been able to see what draws people to big cities like these. Every street seems to look the same to me, a never-ending blur of concrete and garish, neon signs. Anna must remember my distaste; before I’ve even come to grips with where I actually am, we’ve ended up in Central Park. It’s like stepping into an alternate universe, so seamless is the transition from city to nature. I pause every now and then to run my hand down the bark of a tree, almost ravenously drinking in the different textures and sensations it brings. I’d taken things like this for granted, back when I could still touch, still feel.
    Anna’s pace has slowed now, and she winds her arm around mine. Our elbows interlock, and we fall into a gentle, meandering rhythm. The silence between us is perfectly comfortable, and I think it’s what I need.
We come to a stop in the middle of a bridge, or rather; Anna pulls us to a stop. She gazes out across Central Park Lake, a look of ineffable serenity on her face. She unlinks her arm from mine, and drapes them across the stone railing.
    “You know, when I was a kid I used to think water was like a portal to another world, and if we searched hard enough we’d be able to find it,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. She uses it to hoist herself up onto the ledge of the bridge, her legs dangling over the side. “I think that maybe I was right. Maybe there is another world.”
    “What, like Atlantis?”
    “No, nothing like what our imaginations could ever conceive. Something utterly alien and unknowable,” her eyes are burning again, like they always do when she has an idea. “I think we should try and find it.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    She reaches down for my hand to pull me up, and I clamber up onto the railing beside her.
    “If we find the water world, we’d never have to leave this place. You’d never have to go back, and neither would I.”
    “Go back where?” I can’t tell if she’s speaking in riddles again, or genuinely losing her mind.
    She locks eyes with me, communicating an unspeakable truth between us. In a way, I know where she has to go. I know where I have to go, too. But I don’t want to face that reality right now.
    Anna rises to her feet, and beckons for me to do the same. She takes my hand in hers, lacing our fingers together. Her eyes are burning even brighter.
    “Woah, woah, woah. No way! No WAY. I am not jumping in there.”
    “Aw, don’t be such a wimp,” she says, laughing. “Live now, while you can.”
    “Have you seen the state of that water? I don’t… That’s disgusting. That water must be swimming with diseases!”
    “Is that really on your list of priorities right now?”
    She bites her lip, squeezing my hands. And without another word, she steps off the bridge. I tumble off after her, acutely aware of the scrape of my shoe as it falls from the stone, the feel of wind tearing at my clothes, and the eventual slap of skin on water as we collide with the lake.
    The water envelopes me, cocoons me, smothers me with the sweet simplicity of its omnipresence. It’s cold, the biting chill setting little flames of sensation up and down my body. It’s overwhelming. It’s beautiful. But most of all it's just cold.
    I burst to the surface, drinking the air into my lungs as though I was afraid I’d never breathe again. Anna’s already here, her hair clinging to her face like wild, black rivers. She’s alight with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
    She swims toward me, the water lapping at her neck and mouth as she bobs along the ripples our bodies had made. She winds her legs around my waist, and together we float there, face to face, body to body.
    “You’re right, it’s filthy in here,” she laughs. She wipes a patch of green scum from my cheek.
    “I don’t mind,” I say, truthfully.
    “I’ve missed you,” she whispers, resting her forehead against mine.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, and she presses her icy fore-finger to my lips.
    “Don’t.”
    All thoughts of the secret water world in Anna’s mind evaporated. All that mattered was being here, together, right now.
    She leans in to kiss me, her warm breath a stark juxtaposition to the chill of her touch. Her lips are just as soft as I’ve always remembered, and have always longed to feel again. I can feel her fading as we embrace, I can feel myself fading. Bit by bit, I disappear from this world like grains of sand through an hourglass, no matter how hard I try to hold on.

***

    It’s night when I awake, the bright glow of the full moon filling the room. The sheer vividness of the dream still grips me; I can still the caress of water on my skin, the feel of Anna’s lips against mine. And yet, they are but memories. My body is, as ever, unresponsive. Numb. A prison.
    My mother is still here, slumped in the visitor’s chair that has become her home. I wish I could tell her I love her, how much I appreciate her constant vigil by my bedside. I feel like I never told her enough, while I still could.
    I can still remember the day I was diagnosed. It seems like a lifetime ago, and yet it’s only a little over two years. If I was able, I’d probably laugh at how quickly the disease spread through me, robbing me of everything I once took for granted. But alas, I cannot laugh. I cannot cry. I cannot live.
    Motor neurone disease, that’s what the specialist called it. His head was tipped forward as he hunched over my notes, an ominous shadow spilling over his face. Motor neurone disease.
    Anna had gripped my hand so hard I thought it might break. Was she crying? I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. Instead, I fixated on the clipboard clutched in my doctor’s hands.
The specialist—Doctor Samson—finally raised his face. “I’m afraid it’s not a good prognosis.”
    “What are… Motor neurone disease… What is it exactly?” Had I asked that? I felt numb.
    “Motor neurone disease, or Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis as it’s formally known, is a degenerative condition where the nerves – or neurones – that control muscle movement weaken, due to the deterioration of myelin sheaths. Eventually you’ll lose all muscle control entirely.”
    “What, like walking? Picking things up? We can work through that, can’t we, Ezra?” Anna’s voice was like a bell tolling through darkness, but it still sounded distant. Muffled.
    “I’m afraid it’s a sight more serious than that,” Doctor Samson said. He took in a deep intake of breath. “All muscle control will be lost, including the ability to speak, swallow… Even breathe.”
    Anna made a strangled noise. My ears filled with the deafening roar of my heart-beat, hammering out of control. “Treatments, what are our options?”
    Doctor Samson paused again. I wish he’d just spill it out. What was he trying to preserve with those few moments of hesitation? “Currently, there is no cure for ALS—Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis—and treatments are limited. I can prescribe a course of riluzole, but I’m afraid it’d only extend your prognosis by a few months at best.”
    I suddenly felt very cold, as if all life had drained out of me. “How long do I have?”
    “The average lifespan of a person with this condition is two to three years.”
    It felt as if my heart actually stalled, shuddering to a shocked pause. I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. I couldn’t look Doctor Samson in the eye and thank him. I couldn’t continue to sit there clutching at Anna’s hand, pretending to be brave. It all felt so suffocating. I had to leave.
    Doctor Samson had called after me as I fled, pleading with me to wait. But I needed air. I needed to feel the cool rush of winter air in my lungs, while I still could. But the hospital hallways had turned into an impossible labyrinth; it was an endless maze of stark white walls and grim-faced doctors. I was trapped, like a beast in a cage.
    Anna caught up to me, eventually. She was out of breath. Had I been running? She grasped at my arms, touching me all over. Tears misted the brilliant blue of her eyes.
    “Ezra, stop. Just please… Come back to me.”
    I was crying, too. My face was tight with crying. I didn’t want Anna to see me like this. I tried to pull away, but she gripped harder.
    “I’m here for you. Please don’t push me away. Let me be here.”
    I stopped resisting and felt my body go slack. She pulled me into her, her arms wrapped around my quivering shoulders. I buried my face into her shoulder, wanting more than anything to stay there for all eternity. Or, at