the angels.

about a man who is relieved of his earthly body

Tom buried his head in his hands. The air conditioning that smelled of sterilization fluid breezed around the tiny ward. The television in the corner blared, a garish display of jumbled lights and colours. Tom paid no attention to it. It was a sound from another time, and another age. Tom pondered the television’s presence for a few moments. “Time” he rasped, the tumor in his throat making it hard for him to speak. He turned towards the empty bed, and then, he caught himself.

 

He turned away. The television, the air conditioning, the bed, they were relics of a happier time, and of a happier friendship. Those many hours spent with her… it was pure torment to be reminded of her angelic smile, and the little details, fresh as the empty bed sheets. Tom curled into a fetal position on his bed. The only perforations in the perpetual blanket of silence were the staccato coughs.  He would get better that was what the doctors had told him. Hadn’t he reassured Judy Wattowski the same way? The irony. Where was Judy now? Her ashes were kept on a ring around his fourth finger. In a way, they were both miracles. Judy and the finger. A thin white line of dead tissue snaked around the finger’s base. A cut. Doctors had spent many hours trying to stitch that finger back.  And Judy loved that macho scar. She loved it. Remembering was too much. Tom clutched his bald pate even tighter. Tom closed his eyes even tighter, willing the memories to go away, but they overwhelmed him in a tsunami of anguish, and as thick languorous sleep overcame his eyes, a tear rolled down his skeletal cheek.

The year was 1941. Thomas Aare Washington was a happy-go-lucky twenty years old, and swung and partied as hard as anyone else. His outstanding exam scores saw him catapulted right to the navy, the cocked fist of America’s might, however, the day before enlistment, Tom fell ill with a bad head cold, which then developed into pneumonia.  He was transferred to the ward, and given a couple of shots. Constantly coughing all day long, he found nothing to do with the ward, except pace impatiently around, doing nothing. Then he met Judy. Spritely, sparkly Judy. Brunette Judy. Poor doomed Judy.

Tom’s thin frame drew a wheezing breath and hacked a phlegm filled cough. Then, he settled down again, consciousness slipping away from the torment, and into blissful sleep.

Judy played the harmonica, and she played it well. Tom remembered well, how her ruddy face would redden even more as he complimented her skills on the slender instrument. How he would slap him playfully on his stubble coated cheek, then lean towards him, and bury her head in his shoulder.  Then, one day, Tom followed a compelling urge.  Moving the harmonica away from her unresisting lips, he bent down, and planted his lips firmly on hers. Her face colored impressively, and he watched amusedly as her facial expression changed from near catatonic shock to pleasantly surprise.

Then, the hellish treatments started as Tom was discharged from the hospital and back to the frontlines. He saw and heard nothing of her for weeks on end, but when he did see her, she was progressively weaker. The medicine was hellish purgatory, she had once told him, but he was her angel. She had leaned forward, thin frame shaking, and planted a kiss on his nose. Tom teased her about the dark haired soldier who had just been admitted, and how he flirted with every nurse in the ward, all the while pulling a hand through his thick, blond curls. Judy laughed with him outrageously, and her eyes would twinkle as she laughed. Her beautiful hazel eyes.

The present room. Tom’s eyelids flipped open, as he felt a stab of pain in his skull. Rolling his eyes skyward, he spied the glint of a hypodermic syringe. Painkiller. Relief flooded his being as the painkiller took effect.  The pain in his throat ebbed, and Tom went back to the silent reverie.

Judy. Bald Judy, brave Judy, to have endured 14 years of agonizing chemotherapy, and to suffer so long, just to be with him for that measly 6 years. Tom fingered the ring on his finger. “Till death do us part” read the inscription.  And death had done the two of them part after 3 years. She was strong till the end, but her debilitated and abused body failed her. Every day, was a barrage of medicine and drugs, just to keep the murderous cancer away.  Two years after she died, Tom contracted lung cancer. He had only been fighting it for a few weeks now, but doctors told him that the cancer cells had been dormant for twenty years. His thoughts strayed back to Judy. Fourteen years of endless, bitter torment. Judy was braver; Judy was his heart’s fire. And she was gone.

                Tom hacked an agonizing cough. Blood speckled phlegm spattered itself on the creamy white bed sheets. His intense chemotherapy routine had taken its toll, and for every liter of blood sweat and tears that Tom had used, they still hadn’t found a cure. Tom smiled a private smile, wiping the viscous mucus off his lips. By medical terms, he should have been dead by now, or at the very best, expectant. His legs were covered with sores from flesh eating bacteria, a clear sign that most of the tissue there was dead. His lung samples also contained more than 2 cancer cells per centimeter. His pancreas was necrotizing slowly inside of him, and gigantic gastrointestinal sores pockmarked his insides. His brain was being eaten away by a tumor, and his skeletal body was held together by brittle bones. Tom hacked a particularly violent cough and felt something break badly. The blood was starting to spill out of his nose and onto the bed sheet. Tom looked up, blood dripping in a liquid gush down his front.  He convulsed, silently, then, as he fell back to bed, sapped of any remaining energy, he smiled, and his eyes closed.

                And Thomas Aare Washington found his angel.

Reviews

[Ruth]

I like your imagery here a lot!
Quite a knowledgable piece of writing hon
Great work
xx

[Undying Glory]

awesome story, and the ending's really nice. brilliant