Yesterday, I woke up in someone else's body. Today, I'm trying to pretend it's mine.
For the very first time and I felt free, I didn't feel like just a stone that need to be carried around.
Or a lab equipment speaker. Which can be placed anywhere when not in used.
For the very first time, I saw a dream, I never had any dreams. But always heard Dylan and Brians tell me their dreams. Like how they see, they are having dinner with loved ones, or how they saw something really weird like a species that is mix of cockroach and a mouse. Like their dreams were either fantasy or totally horrific abominations.
But for me, if I must say, it was pleasantly sweet. I lay across a field where the grass touched tips of my fingers, each blade cool and damp with morning dew. The scent of flowers drifted lazily in the air—Blue Cornflowers swaying like scattered drops of sky, Spider Lilies burning red against the green, and countless blooms I didn't yet know the names of. A breeze rolled over the field, brushing my skin like the touch of something alive, carrying with it the warmth of the sun in soft, golden threads.
I had never dreamed before—not once. My nights had always been a dark, uninterrupted void. And now… this. A world that felt impossibly gentle. The earth was breathing beneath me. The light was painting my skin. It was the first dream of my life, and it welcomed me as though I had always belonged here.
For the first time, I thought: Maybe this is a beginning. A new feeling. A new self. I didn't want to wake. I wanted to dissolve into that meadow and let the sun and flowers keep me forever.
I think… I should walk for a bit. The thought felt strange, heavy, like I was daring myself to do something forbidden. My gaze drifted to the walker beside the bed—cold metal bars, rubber grips worn smooth from other hands, and small wheels that squeaked faintly when moved. I reached for it with my left hand, fingers brushing the cool surface, and pulled it closer.
Standing was awkward. My body—Dylan's body—didn't yet feel like it belonged to me. The muscles in my legs trembled before I even put weight on them, and my balance swayed like I was on a ship. Slowly, I pushed down on the walker's handles, hearing the faint groan of the metal under my weight, and shifted my feet forward.
Though my legs moved because they remembered how, not because I knew how to move them. It was like borrowing someone's coat—warm, protective, but never quite fitting the shape of me.
One step. The floor felt different through these feet—warmer, softer than I imagined. Another step. My shoulders hunched unconsciously, as if bracing for a fall. I focused on the rhythm: step, slide, breathe. The hallway stretched ahead, pale and endless, its green-and-white walls lined with the scent of antiseptic and faint traces of stale coffee from the nurse's station. My heartbeat was loud in my ears, not from exertion, but from the simple strangeness of moving—really moving—on my own.
"I mean, after Dylan wakes up. We will need to switch back. So, I should enjoy this freedom as much as possible." I some how managed to walk and reached the washroom.
I took a bath for the very first time. "It was… refreshing."
Warm water rolled over my skin, seeping into muscles I didn't even know could ache. The steam curled upward, carrying a faint scent of soap and something herbal—lavender, maybe. Droplets clung to my eyelashes, blurring the white tiles around me into a soft haze. I ran my left hand along my arm, feeling the strange firmness of muscle beneath warm skin, the faint throb of a pulse under my fingertips.
I couldn't stop staring at the ripples that spread from my movements. Back when I was trapped in the crystal, water was just sound—the trickle in a lab sink, the echo of rain on metal roofs. Now it was everywhere: against my skin, around me, in the sound of it dripping from my hair.
I tilted my head back, letting the water run down my face, and for the first time in my life I understood why humans sighed in relief.
"I wonder why Dylan hated baths so much…" I muttered to myself.
I wondered if this was wrong—enjoying something in his body that he never could. It was like stealing not just his life, but his pleasures too.
When I stepped back into the room, the faint scent of disinfectant still lingered in the air. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the bed—my bed—where a nurse was busy stripping off the old sheets. Her movements were quick but careful, folding each corner with a precision that reminded me of an engineer assembling a delicate mechanism.
"Good morning, Ms. Nurse," I said, my voice coming out softer than I expected. I was trying to sound polite, formal—like I thought people should.
She stopped mid-fold and looked at me with a startled blink before breaking into a laugh, warm and easy. "Good morning, young sir. But please—call me 'sister' or just 'nurse.' 'Ms. Nurse' makes me sound like an old schoolteacher."
I stood there for a moment, gripping my walker, not sure whether I should smile back. "Please… can you call me Mark?" I asked, keeping my expression steady, almost rehearsed.
She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Alright then, young Mark," she said with a smile that felt genuine, though I wasn't sure if she meant it.
I watched her work as she replaced the bedding, her hands moving with practiced ease. The faint rustle of fabric was oddly soothing. In a way, it felt like she was repairing something—resetting the room to order—while I stood there, still unsure how to reset myself.
"Mark, come with me for the Physio session." She took me to the instructor.
The physio room smelled faintly of polished wood and something medicinal, like mint and rubbing alcohol. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.
The instructor—an older man with a weathered face and calm eyes—guided me toward a set of parallel bars. "Alright, young man, we'll start simple. No rushing. Let the body remember."
I gripped the bars, my knuckles whitening as I took my first careful steps. Each movement felt strange—like my muscles were waking from a long sleep but didn't quite remember who they belonged to. My right side felt heavier, off balance, as if the missing arm had thrown the whole system into disarray.
Every step was a lie dressed as progress. The body moved forward, but I stayed in the same place—Mark pretending to be Dylan, one careful step at a time.
"Good… steady… keep your eyes forward," the instructor murmured, his voice the slow rhythm to which my steps reluctantly followed.
Minutes stretched into hours. We worked on walking, turning, bending—things Dylan's body had once done without thought. My legs trembled from the unfamiliar strain, and sweat prickled at my temples. The walker creaked faintly each time I leaned into it for support.
Between exercises, I sat on the bench, catching my breath. From across the room, I watched other patients—each struggling in their own way. Some smiled through the pain. Others kept their eyes down, silent. I wasn't sure which one I was.
By the time the session ended, my shirt clung to my back, my thighs ached, and my palm was sore from gripping the walker too tightly. Still, there was a quiet satisfaction in it—a small victory in moving a body that was both mine and not mine.
"Thank you, sister. I will go back to my room." I used to walker to head back into my room.
I came to my room and saw someone else adding pillows and making sure for a clean bed. I spoke "The sister did change the bedding this morning."
He very politely said, "Oh, but it looks like someone used it after it."
"Yeah, I did. It is my room." I replied while holding onto my walker.
"Oh, sit down then we can talk," he said, his voice warm and conversational, like someone who had known me for years rather than seconds. He gestured casually toward the chair by the bed, pulling it closer with one hand while the other adjusted the strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder.
His smile was easy, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes—measured, like he was quietly studying me as we spoke.
"This is room 404, right?" he asked, glancing around at the walls as though trying to confirm he was in the right place.
"No, this is 403," I replied, using the walker to shuffle a step closer to the doorway. "404 is next door."
"Ah," he chuckled softly, a sound more amused at his own mistake than embarrassed. "My bad, I got turned around."
There was a pause, then his tone shifted, softened. "Son… how did you actually get those injuries?" His eyes briefly darted to the stump of my right arm, then quickly back up to meet my gaze—as if not wanting to seem impolite.
"Oh, these?" I forced a light shrug. "Just an accidental crash." My voice was even, the words chosen carefully. "I'm Mark, by the way. Nice to meet you."
He extended his hand without hesitation, and I gripped it firmly with my left. His handshake was steady, the kind that belonged to someone who had seen plenty of life but hadn't yet let it make him bitter.
"David Gudman," he said with a friendly nod. "You can call me Gudman."
His tone carried no pity, just plain sincerity, and that made me strangely more comfortable than I expected. For a brief moment, the room didn't feel so sterile.
"Guess we'll be neighbours," I said.
"Yeah, looks like it," he replied, and there was something almost reassuring in his certainty—as if being neighbours was already a done deal, something steady in a world where everything else felt unstable.
We chatted a little longer, just enough for me to forget where I was. Eventually, Gudman rose from the chair, patting the backrest as though sealing our short conversation. "I must go to my room. Sorry for the trouble."
"Not at all," I said, watching him leave, the sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet hallway. For the first time that day, the room didn't feel quite as empty.
Day one nearly ended with me just learning to walk—if you could call it walking. It was more of a hesitant shuffle at first, my steps uneven and uncertain, like a child taking their first clumsy strides. Every movement was a negotiation between my mind and muscles, a constant tug-of-war where my brain issued commands, and my body decided whether it felt like obeying.
The physio sessions were exhausting, but strangely satisfying. Each time I managed to move without the walker, even for a few seconds, it felt like a tiny victory stolen from a body that wasn't originally mine. The muscles remembered motions I'd never done before, the weight shifting from heel to toe with a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar.
I could almost hear Dylan's ghost in the back of my mind, teasing me for wobbling like a drunk on his first night out. And maybe I deserved it. Still, there was something oddly freeing in relearning these simple things, like reclaiming a piece of life one step at a time.
By evening, my legs were trembling from the strain, and my palms ached from gripping the walker too tightly. But there was a strange satisfaction in the soreness—it was proof that I'd done something, moved somewhere, even if it was just across the length of a hallway.
As I lowered myself onto the bed, the stiffness already creeping into my thighs and calves, I realised this was only the beginning. Tomorrow, I'd walk a little farther. Maybe faster. Maybe without the walker, if I was bold enough. For now, though, the weight of exhaustion pulled me under, and I let the quiet of the room swallow me whole.
*****