At the Hospice

An elderly man bitterly awaits his death at the local hospice.

 

            "I hate the way the nurses treat me here." Like some average, everyday schmuck they treat me!" Why won't they run around frantically as if my dying were of any importance at all? And sweat! Why aren't they sweating over me?" All of these thoughts unconsciously broke loose from Jim Cormat's tired lips as he sat in his rocking chair at the Brewster hospice. He often wondered why in his old age he could no longer think without unwittingly sharing his secrets with whoever could hear. He had a tendency to blame this newfound flaw on the listeners.

            "It's none of your damned business if I'm thinking too loud for Bernie to sleep! It's three in the f*****g afternoon!" he shouted at the kind nurse. "Yeah, that gets you going, doesn't it? Well f**k, f**k, f**k, f**k, f**k, f**k you!" Jim had discovered that this sort of language was the only way to get any sort of reaction out of the hospice nurses and he employed this tactic habitually. He also did this because he knew that the nurses were not supposed to interfere with the patients much, so as to let them live their last hours the way that made them happiest.

            "Mr. Cormat, please," whispered one of the nurses, "Sheila is very easily offended, and she has just as much right as you do to live in peace." Why couldn't she understand that this interaction was making Jim the happiest man in the ward?

            "Sheila's a w***e! I knew her back in . . . yeah, I'll let her live when you let me die." His thoughts were not nearly as clear as they once had been. If he'd known that time was going to rot his brain in the end, he'd have experimented a bit more with the various pills he'd always found floating around his old dorm room.

            "Mr. Cormat, we are here for that exact purpose, we just wish that you'd be a bit more considerate for the other people who desire the same." People she said, clearly avoiding the use of the words patients, clients, regulars and corpses.

            "So nitpicky with their words!" Jim let ramble. "And ugly! Why did the TV lie to me about all those hot nurses going about in the world? Certainly no way for me to go, that's for sure."

 

            The nurse quietly stepped off into the other half of the building; the part where people weren't allowed. It was blocked off by a large curtain with happy children printed on it. Jim had supposed that they were meant to make the dying folks happy, but he'd always hated kids. He preferred it when the nurse would pull the curtain back, distorting the features of the jolly little kids.

            "Now you know how I feel," he would yell at them, "I used to be cute too, ya' little b******s!" This time, however, when the nurse pulled back the curtain she returned with a syringe. Jim used to have a fear of needles, but he was too headstrong to tell anybody, so he stone faced his way through every vaccination, blood sample, and stab wound; today was no different. He felt the needle pierce each layer of skin before he thought he heard it hit a vein. As he let go of all of his tight facial muscles the anonymous injection seeped through his bloodstream until he no longer felt in control of the rhythmic creaking of his fast fading rocking chair.

 

            The sky was black as he crawled from the underbrush, an action that'd become significantly more complicated with his newly grown wings. He felt small when comparing himself to the roots and straw that he'd conquered. Ruffling the feathers on his breast to inspect them, he found that they were white and fair. The feathers on his wings were silver; his tail, black. He strongly felt that he'd remembered how to fly. He gave it a try, but found it difficult to accommodate his thin, brittle legs. Calmly, he closed his tiny eyes and was suddenly lifted into the sky. He found that he did not even have to flap his wings anymore, as if he were being flown, as opposed to actually flying. Regardless, it felt incredibly freeing, like nothing he'd ever imagined. Feeling anxious, he decided to open his eyes.

 

            The sky was on fire and he couldn't seem to manage to bring himself down. The tip of his left wing had been singed by the flames and it hurt him so that he couldn't take the pain. Approaching a frighteningly large crane fly, he attempted to talk to it, but found that he could not speak or squawk at all. Still, the crane fly grasped onto his blackened right foot and pulled him down. As they descended from the sky, he realized that it was rather cold down at ground level. It continually got colder as the crane fly began to pull Jim underground. He frantically tried to get loose, but was without strength. The icy night dirt compacted and compressed his small, frail body. The crane fly was nowhere to be found as the noises came; a sort of digging and scuttling. Within moments the insects attacked. Various beetles, termites and other creepy crawlies surrounded Jim and tugged at his feathers. Their many miniscule legs touched him all over as their pincers and feelers pulled him apart. He closed his eyes as he felt them taking away his left leg, hoping that maybe he would once again attain the feeling of flight. He sat mobile as the insects continued. It was not long before the pupae and larvae were introduced in order to nest inside of Jim's now opened chest cavity . . .

 

            "S**t."

 

The drugs had worn off and Jim came out of his sleepy stupor. How long had he been out? Moving his legs he found that familiar creak in his chair and chose to sit silently, for he felt that he was about to die. He did not think of his family, or the nurses, or the children on the curtain, but instead he thought of the silence; the sound of people waiting to die. Was it any different from the sound of a newborn baby asleep, or that of a fool with nothing left to say? Jim Cormat died suddenly, leaving this question unanswered and unnoticed. The nurses were glad to be rid of his spirit as they carried him away to the other half of the room, behind the tall curtain.

Reviews

[Little Mouse]

Great writing! I don't think this will be as constructive of a review as I'd like... but I simply want to tell you I took much from this writing. It allowed my mind to travel far, thank you for that.

And it just so happens today I saw a great heron, the first in quite some time gracefully coming in for a landing, unlike your frightening described crane.

I'd say cheers, but somebody (Jim) just died! -:3 )~~~

[Raef C. Boylan]

This is an amazing write.
You really took us into Jim's experience. He's an excellent character: bold, believable, vulnerable and bitter yet not self-pitying. There are so many people out there who are lonely enough to prefer negative interaction over no interaction at all, like how he engages the nurse.
His drugged dream was really intriguing and disturbing, with great attention to detail. We were right inside his mind, and you didn't spare us. It's great.
"Approached a frighteningly large crane fly, he attempted to talk to it" [Approaching?]

The finality of that end passage is haunting. His last thoughts are profound but not overly-dramatic - and nobody except us will ever know [is how the reader is left feeling].

Overall, this short story is very worthy of publication.
Thanks for sharing it with us. You're a talented writer.

[Chloe..Across the Unive..]

Great story, good characters so believable ... also good dialogue.
The poor nurses lol and i too love Jim .. like Rain says, Great work..

Chloe
xoxo

[Rain]

You are a born story writer. You give life to your characters. I loved Jim. I love the way your beginnings grasp, and don't let go. That is extremely difficult, and to have an ending that says something...makes you think. You have excellent talent. These pieces need to be seen, I'll work on that. I HATE saying "great work" but it was. Rain..

[Catrinka]

this was a great read - I'm not a critic nor an editor, but I know what I like, and I really liked your story. I love the spirit of your character, even if he was a ornery old guy! The last parapgraph was especially poignant and my favorite sentences: but instead he thought of the silence; the sound of people waiting to die. Was it any different from the sound of a newborn baby asleep, or that of a fool with nothing left to say?
Kudos! well done!