Writing Past Midnight #7
She Circled the Bed, with dead aim eye-contact that would . . .
. . rival any mature hawk gaining on her prey. The moment the words came from her lips, terror, shock, and denial wrapped me in plastic cling sheets that would not allow escape.
As she spoke.
Vision’s of being on Dexter’s table caused me to void warm fluids. The warmth spread into the sheets and the odor rose aloft being pushed by the sonic rhythms of my pounding heart.
Her title “Nurse Practitioner” her job at this moment of traumatic syndrome time was to deliver bad news. “We’re going to fill out your discharge papers and send you home with hospice care.”
She walked from one side of the bed to the other, keeping a constant motion and never loosing eye contact. Shocked that I couldn’t understand, that I objected, that I cried for one last moment to cling to humanity she continued her dance taunting me with her dark hair in curls. Her next move. To beguile and lift my focus to the vision of her soft toned cheeks while she continued to emit questions about my lack of acceptance. She never utters one word about my tears.
Then, endless moments of silence.
She leaves her card on the bed side table and leaves the room.
AJJ
09/10/2021
