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jazzfishThe room is a putty-colored box, the floor a shinier putty than the walls. There is the occasional hiss of a machine doing something, keeping blood circulating perhaps. The quiet tick of a battery-powered clock marks the passing of seconds. A faint odor of urine, not quite masked by the antiseptic, completes the aura of unease, of dis-ease, of disease.
Harsh fluorescents war with the "natural" bulbs over the sink. The stark white sheets of the bed have become their battleground. Every crease is shadowed with yellow-orange on one side, blue-grey on the other. On occasion the field of battle shifts with a stirring beneath the blanket. Then the lines are redrawn and the opposing generals deploy their troops once more.
His head is all that's visible. Beneath the covers the rest of his body forms terrain across which the light brigades skirmish, forward the six hundred watts. Sandy grey hair blends with the sandy walls and the grey light, flowing into the sandy grey stubble on his thin, sunken face. His eyes are closed. When open their startling blackness provides a release from the oppressively inoffensive room. Now, though, he sleeps, or he's too tired to bother looking around.
His wife sits in a chair next to the bed. Her face betrays only a hint of the shock she feels, both at how suddenly the end came, and at how long he has kept hanging on. Her hands and her voice are sure; it's only around the eyes that the exhaustion shows through.
Her family surrounds her in her grief and shock. Two sons, a daughter, five grandchildren, assorted other relatives. They come and go throughout the day: never fewer than two, rarely more than six. They talk quietly with her and each other. On occasion one looks over at the shape on the bed.
They say it won't be long now. They've been saying that for the past three days. He's a tough fellow; one doesn't get four Bronze Stars, teach high school, or raise three children without acquiring a measure of grit and perseverance. Even so, he can only go on for so long.
Harsh fluorescents war with the "natural" bulbs over the sink. The stark white sheets of the bed have become their battleground. Every crease is shadowed with yellow-orange on one side, blue-grey on the other. On occasion the field of battle shifts with a stirring beneath the blanket. Then the lines are redrawn and the opposing generals deploy their troops once more.
His head is all that's visible. Beneath the covers the rest of his body forms terrain across which the light brigades skirmish, forward the six hundred watts. Sandy grey hair blends with the sandy walls and the grey light, flowing into the sandy grey stubble on his thin, sunken face. His eyes are closed. When open their startling blackness provides a release from the oppressively inoffensive room. Now, though, he sleeps, or he's too tired to bother looking around.
His wife sits in a chair next to the bed. Her face betrays only a hint of the shock she feels, both at how suddenly the end came, and at how long he has kept hanging on. Her hands and her voice are sure; it's only around the eyes that the exhaustion shows through.
Her family surrounds her in her grief and shock. Two sons, a daughter, five grandchildren, assorted other relatives. They come and go throughout the day: never fewer than two, rarely more than six. They talk quietly with her and each other. On occasion one looks over at the shape on the bed.
They say it won't be long now. They've been saying that for the past three days. He's a tough fellow; one doesn't get four Bronze Stars, teach high school, or raise three children without acquiring a measure of grit and perseverance. Even so, he can only go on for so long.
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Date: 2006-12-12 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-12 06:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-12 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-13 01:53 am (UTC)