Drowning: Part 1, with the trees

I often dreamed that I was swimming off the coast of Perhentian Island in the calm of an overcast sky. The weather was balmy but not torching, and the easterly wind barely caused a ripple in the quietness of the mid-afternoon sea. I swam rhythmically and slowly on my back, not to any destination in particular, but simply enjoying the freedom to move my body liberally and the subdued view of the green pasture on the nearby tiny island in the opening of spring. Suddenly a cold current from the deep dark bottom circled my left ankle and began slowly dragging me downwards into the unknown abyss. As I reached up desperately for my final breath, a old decrepit tree branch stretched from heaven to just within my range, I grabbed hold, and was then gently lifted up like a tiny hummingbird from the troubled water into the sky. It was always at this moment that I woke and found myself lying on the secondhand twin bed with all-too-familiar linen, and the withered tree branch from the ageless Maple outside our apartment, blown ceaselessly by the cold Northern Canadian wind, tapped incessantly and sternly on my bedside window. I was in Toronto as always, and waiting for my mother to return home from her arduous daily menial labor.

Mindlessly I turned aside to switch on the small black cassette radio, which was permanently set to the easy listening "more music, less talk" station that my mother mandated. Permeating the veil of mind-numbing soft percussions was the grandfather clock in the living room striking five. I understood then that the medicine had again worked its magic, knocking me into unconscious oblivion for a full four hours after lunch. At least I felt no pain in my paralyzed legs, and last I checked, they were still of colors remotely resembling those of human's. A lightning sharp pain shot up my deformed spine, reminding me that my chance of a normal life remained meager at best. I grimaced in pathetic submission; this was my life in the true North strong and free -- a reality stuffed like a Christmas present inside a run down Scarborough apartment room, and an existence tied like a red ribbon forever to the bedposts.