The flickers of the bright fluorescent tube lights cast
shadows on the white, sterile walls of the hospital room. It was
cramped; there was barely room to squeeze in beside
the bed. The crisp, clean sheets had been washed with a
scent of disinfectant; that smell of meticulous cleansing and
purposeful sterility that could never lessen the stench of
sweat, pain, and death. It spread from the unkempt bowl
next to the bed, the one holding a mixture of urine
and blood. The stink of stale urine had permeated the
space; it was mixing with the stench of the following
night's dinner. The bed was made of iron, and looked
like it was part of a Victorian mad-house. It repelled
the eye, unlike the enameled iron dinner tray, the
silver-plated personal items, and the hand-painted
picture of a patient. It was a fairly new picture, as
there was no image of the room; just above the bed and
over the head of the patient. The light from the window
gently illuminated the picture of the young man sitting
in bed. He was wearing white hospital-issue bed-clothes
pins, a satchel around his neck, an expression of contentment
in his face, and a small man with a camera he was taking
a picture of.
Awareness started to filter through the veins of
the young man. The pain and the smells of death lessened,
giving way to a sensation of warmth, love, and contentment.
The light from the window was fading; the face
of his mother was slowly fading away, buried in the shadows.
A memory flashed into the mind; one of a happy childhood
where his mother had held him and his little sister
out of the downpour outside the window of their
grandparent's farmhouse. The trees on the hill had
torn at his soft skin, dragging, scratching it as they
had all night in the rain. This memory was also one
that had brought him to this place.
The scene created by the twilight outside had been
broken as the door opened and two people walked into
the room. They were both wearing hospital-issue
sleep wear, different from what the patient had worn.
They were talking quietly, as if they were afraid of being
heard. They were uncomfortable with being in the same
space as the dead man, who was the only person that
wasn't part of the modern medical establishment.
The young man wore a black suit and a satchel. His
shirt was rolled up to reveal his thin, pale, grey
arm. The toes of his shoes and his black hair were
stained with blood. His hand reached down, picking up
the bloodied table side. His fingernails were yellow.
He tugged at the stained table top. "Mum. Dad,"
said the young man.
The young woman sat at a chair and placed the
camera down on the table. She looked down at
him, feeling the pain from what he had just done.
"Papa," she said, "I am so sorry to hear about you
being in a place like this."
"I am sorry," he said back.
The young man picked up the camera, and looked
at the woman. "Could you help me? I wanted to send
a picture of me. You know, just in case I did not wake up.
Maybe some day I will get better."
She moved over to him and he gathered the edges of
his bed-clothes to himself. She placed her hand
around his right hand. "I do not know what to say to you.
But please, be a good boy. Do not do anything foolish."
He nodded, a half smile played on his face. She
wasn't believing his dream. Nobody was. The older
woman sitting near him did just that; she was
worried as well.