Etched Away

Her feet swing slowly, monotonously, back and forth as she sits on the cold table, staring at the poster on the opposite wall. "Cancer--What Now?" the top of the uncaring sign reads; like it knows anything about how to react when your world caves in over your small, insignificant body. It knows nothing. But, then again, neither does she.

 

So she sits and waits. Her feet swinging, her lungs breathing, the clock on the wall mocking her with its ability to stop and start with the flick of a switch.

 

She waits.

 

For a moment she almost wishes her mother was beside her, but the thought quickly recedes into the dust covered corners of her mind. No, not here, not now. She would only make the moment more guilt ridden than it already is. She has already heard that speech, already been told how she brought this on herself… It is a fate that she cannot escape; what will she say when I get home?

 

Her head begins to ache again, a slow but deafening ring trembles in her ears. She forces her eyes shut just to regain herself, but as she does, the darkness engulfs her mind; falling down the everlasting hole of self-pity which she can deny herself no longer. Her body falls softly onto the table and she lies unmoving on it as she falls. Perhaps her mother was right, perhaps she did bring this on herself, perhaps that being in the sky, God as she is told, has found fault in her and is now showing her the gates.

 

She waits.

 

The clock ticks louder the farther she falls; piercing her thoughts, not allowing her to escape. She begins to slip away from the table, becoming nothing more than the name on a checklist, and then, even her name begins to fade away; etch it on a tombstone for all to see, for all to learn from --

 

a mother's love.

 

A sudden movement rips her from the rabbit hole and she opens her eyes to the gray gentleman with a clipboard. How appropriate.

 

Her feet stop moving, her heart stops beating, her breathing slows; she is going mad, but yet remains invisible… she does not move from her cold bed.

 

the gray man holds a hand to her gray father in the waiting room.

 

 

                        We tried.

 

What will her mother say?