The hands of the clock seemed frozen in place as Ann laid in her hospital bed. The uneven beeping of her heart monitor filled the room and the drops from the IV were growing increasingly louder. The repetitions were almost hypnotic. As Ann’s mind began to wander, she teetered the line between euphoria and agony.
Waves of doctors sped around her, eternally changing the IV bags and fluffing her pillows. As if that would help. The disease ravaged her body and she saw her skin tighten with every passing day. Ann was significantly smaller now than when she had arrived; but the doctors paid no mind to her deterioration.
Her family had stopped visiting her long ago, having already reconciled themselves to her inevitable demise, but still her thoughts were consumed by them. Thoughts of the pain she put her daughter through, and how she would have to grow up without Ann by her side. Her husband who, now that she was hand in hand with Death, seemed unable to handle the responsibilities of being a single parent.
Anger burned through her like wildfire, and waves of regret flooded the decimated landscape of her soul. If she could just live, she could set things right. She had already beaten this disease twice, she could do it again.
The hand of the clock moved with a booming click.
The doctors funneled into her room, seemingly in slow motion, their pace matching the rhythm of her heart monitor. They changed out the bag of red death hooked to her arm, but Ann could not take it anymore. She tried to yell, to rip the needle from her near collapsed vein, but the doctors had kept her too weak.
The bones in her hands and arms like tiny mountains in her skin, as if she had decayed while she was trapped in that godforsaken bed. The smell of Death overpowered the sterile smell of bleach, but through all of the anguish she felt, she only wished to see her daughter once more.
The sight of her would be traumatic, Ann knew this, but she could feel the cold wind of Death on her withered skin; the thought of beating this again became more of a distant dream.
Click. The hand moved again, sending a shiver through Ann’s body.
Breathing was becoming a chore, as more of the red death flooded her body. Could dying really be worse than this? Writhing in agony, struggling to breathe, that damn “medicine” scorching her veins, and being unable to hug her daughter. Giving up seemed so easy now; letting go instead of continuing a losing battle.
Click
With a heavy exhale, Ann softened and her heart monitor held a steady tone. The ever revolving flood of doctors made their way to her side once more and removed the lines that clung to her arms like vines. They would call her family, her daughter would crumble, but the father would go on as if it were just another day. Life would continue, though it would be darker.
With a soft smile on her face and a tear in her eye. Ann had made her choice.
Image: Unsplash - Brandon Holmes
The "red death" imagery was especially striking, turning what should be salvation into another kind of suffering. Ann’s final acceptance is both painful and strangely peaceful. Loved this, Mina.
A haunting, beautiful, and heart-wrenching piece. To be fair, those things could describe a lot of your stories, but this one in particular had an excellent structure with the ticking of the clock sort of driving the rhythm of the story.
I also really liked how she chose to embrace the end on her own terms. I love how you said she made a choice at the end. This was not her disease “winning.” This was her taking back her power by facing the end without fear.
Really loved this one.