There’s a song stuck in my head.  

It’s not a song so much as a melody–even less than a melody, just a short series of notes.  

What’s worse is that it’s not inside my mind where I’m hearing it—like an earworm, which is often, say, Queen’s “Play the Game,” in my case—but my mother insists that she can’t hear this little melody, this series of notes. And yet, I’m almost sure that this tune is beeping toward me from somewhere—down the hall, or maybe the floor beneath us.  

It’s a chiptune. If you don’t know, chiptunes are those simple, electronic orchestrations that accompany early video games. Think Super Mario Bros. or maybe Donkey Kong. The Legend of Zelda—those are well-known ones.  

This chiptune, I’m hearing it. I know I am. I’ve never “heard things” before, like, I’ve never heard voices. Well, I can hum it and try to replicate the notes: “do-do-do, do-do-do, dooo-do-do…” See: it’s impossible to communicate what I hear.  

I don’t sing well, but I can carry a tune. My mother used to play video games with me when I was little, and I’m hoping she’ll recognize it. This is driving me crazy.  

“Could you go and see if we’re above the Children’s Ward, or something,” I ask her.  

It’s almost three in the morning, and my mother’s half asleep. I understand when she declines. My irritation over identifying the song or chiptune or whatever it is–she’s humoring this with a thinly veiled sense of worry.  

I still have my phone. During the last few weeks, I don’t think they gave me my phone in some of the hospitals–it’s hard to remember. The seizures started four or five nights ago.  

I’d never had a seizure before.  

Outside my hospital room is the little college where my wife earned her nursing degree. I haven’t seen my wife since this all started. “She’s moving your stuff back home from Knoxville,” my mother told me at some point.  

I guess that means I don’t live in Knoxville anymore.  

No one can figure out why these seizures started; the doctors don’t understand yet, anyway. Whatever medication they have me on now seems to have stopped them. So far, so good there.  

Punch-Out!!. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!!. I think that’s what I’m hearing on an endless loop. I’m hearing the chiptune melody from that old video game, and it’s the one that plays between levels when your character, Little Mac, is shown running in a sweatsuit, training. I think that’s supposed to be an homage to the movie Rocky.  

I call my friend Matt. As far as I know, no one knows that I’m here, back at home in Murfreesboro, a little over two hours away from Knoxville, westward, across the line separating the state from eastern and central time. 

Matt answers. My mom is telling me I shouldn’t call someone at this hour, but I need to know what this song is. I can’t sleep.   

From his voice, it's evident that Matt is awake and active, though surprised to hear from me. He’s a kind and gentle guy who loves drawing comic books and painting miniatures for tabletop role-playing games. “Hey, I’m in the hospital,” I say without giving any more details. He pauses, and this pause extends. He’s waiting for me, politely.  

I picture him smiling that same humored but worried smile, and I continue: “Do you know what this song is?”  

I try to hum the chiptune; I try a couple of times until I think I’ve got it right. I tell him I’m hearing it and that I don’t think that it’s only in my head–regardless, it’s driving me crazy–and I need to know what this damn song is.  

He laughs; he doesn’t know; he suggests that I attempt to YouTube it on my PC? For the time being, my wife has insisted we hold out on buying an iPhone—I’d been thinking about Christmas.  

Dawnlight begins to warm my window. My mother has fallen asleep. The birds threaten to banish the tune from my unsteady memory. What I can do, however, is use my primitive flip phone’s memo–the voice recorder–to hum the notes. Once they release me, I’ll track it down. If all goes well, I’ll be out today, starting a new life searching for a melody.   

Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living with his wife and son in Middle Tennessee. His stories appear in Roi Faineant, BOMBFIRE LIT, Dollar Store Magazine, Many Nice Donkeys, and other publications. You can learn more about him and his writing at www.travisflattblog.com and/or tweet with him at @WriterLeeFlatt.