June 2013
15 posts
It wasn’t the feeling of death that he felt at every corner, goosebumps from bleary eyes of patients’ relatives staring at his back when he wasn’t looking. It was none of that.
It was the silence.
It always began with the same question.
“How are you feeling now?”
or
“Feeling better?”
Well if I was feeling good enough I wouldn’t even be here you little dipshit.
Then the silence took full reign, as the patient lay there expecting something and the visitor sat there also expecting something. Only that the something the patient was expecting was so different from the something the visitor was expecting that they both waited, not knowing that something was being expected of them at that very moment. And there they stayed, with their expectations missing each other as much 2 parallel line set in 3-dimensional space - which is to say, a lot.
It was this silence that he couldn’t stand.
She was a little tipsy, but then again everyone was. Leaning in slightly, she asked, “So mister…what do I smell like?”
“Sweet and spicy, with a hint of despair,” he replied.
There was a momentary silence, as she fumbled against the intoxication to understand what he said.
It was a long while before she spoke again.
“…Isn’t that what death smells like?”
“Yes,” he said with a perfectly sober expression that was possibly full of sorrow, “yes, the smell of death indeed. “
It was not known whether he meant it to be heard or he was speaking only to himself.
The sadness permeated the room
An ink blot dropped into a glass of water
Diffusing and obscuring my view
from anything
Else.
May 2013
24 posts
I don’t know if it’s me or the world, but I’m just so tired.
So tired.
