Mid-Week Blues Buster, week 2.8

Prompt: http://thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com/2014/05/06/mid-week-blues-buster-week-2-8/

3:51:31 AM

The second hand drags itself that one final mark and I push the button. The beep-beep of the alarm fails to sound, and I see the drop fall into the IV. I count to forty this time before I start to feel it, not a rush, not anymore, but a gradual retreat. I always forget how tense I get, like I’m about to fly off the edge of being able to cope with the pain, and it’s not until I breathe deeply that I realize how little air I’d been taking in.

3:53:02 AM

The pain doesn’t go away. It used to, back when the morphine was ibuprofen and I didn’t see Atropos’ scissors in the doctor’s eyes. But there’s still something like relief, or at least something like sleep. The hands on the clock fade, and I step into a dream. Each dream is a continuation of the last, as if there’s something in my unconscious mind that wants to know how it all turns out. I suspect there’s no real continuity, but it doesn’t really matter, because she’s there, and she’s young and beautiful and I can still run.

3:55:59 AM

The tick of the clock wakes me from the dream. Only three minutes that time, and the transition from the pretend to the real was sharp. I could still feel her arms and smell her hair – the herbal shampoo that she loved, that lingered in the air long after she’d left. The last words she had said were as ethereal as hope, but my body responded anyway – her lips, her voice, her breath in my ear never failed to summon that desire. Not all of me was dead, not yet, although the catheter took even this small joy from me. The drugs were still there, still working their magic, and I drifted back off.

3:57:22 AM

Where there’s light, there must be shadow. This was the other dream, the one that reminds me that when I die, all will be suffering. All will be pain. All will be consumed by the dark. The dark screams at me, teeth and viscera, and I know what it wants. But I don’t go to it. Not yet.

3:58:43 AM

The passing conversation of nurses in the hall cuts the dream mercifully short, but this one never truly leaves me. I know when it’s visited because the pain is back. The morphine has done what it could do. They could give me more, I know – they could make me comfortable – but they tell me I don’t hurt enough. That there’s still hope. That if I get as much as I want, I could become addicted, and then getting clean would be a nightmare.

3:59:02 AM

The nightmare is the monster in my colon, eating me from the inside out.

3:59:10 AM

The convulsion comes, and I hunch over in my bed, clenching my teeth to keep the cries in. I’ve seen the pain in the nurses’ eyes. They want to help, but can’t, and they know that, and they know that I know that. No need to call Angie in – at least I think it’s Angie’s night – if her pity would help, I’d take it, but it won’t. And she uses an herbal shampoo that just makes my heart ache. All thoughts of lips and caresses in the dark are gone now, but I still miss her, even through the pain.

4:01:31 AM

I push the button.


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