Seven

I rolled around in the bed trying to find a spot that contented me. There was a particular ridge on the right, and whenever I laid in it my back began to ache. After 6 weeks in the hospital, I had learned to avoid that ridge. I lit a cigarette and held it in my hand, which was shaking at a very rapid pace. So rapid that it made it hard to place the cigarette in my mouth and take a draw. When I did though, it felt so good to breathe in the carcinogenic substance that I had been without for so long. After all, I didn’t feel well enough to move out of my bed, and the only place I was allowed to smoke was outside. But now, I had been moved into a private ward. All on my own, in a bed, on my own. Unfortunately still the same ridgey bed; but at least when there wasn’t a nurse with me I could lean over to my drawer, take out my Peter Jacksons and light one up. There was one particular nurse that didn’t like me. She was placing some kind of poison, either in my IV or my food. She wanted me dead. You see, I recognised her, and I think she recognised me. Years and years and years ago, I had had a relationship with her, I think. I was much, much younger, and she was much, much prettier. We lasted for a good while, but I was horrible to her. Really, really horrible. Never loyal, rarely nice. I never loved her, she was just good to have around. Convenient. I did like her a lot, though. But not enough to stop me cheating on her. First it was Sandy, then Margaret. Anyway, the point is that all these years later she’s looking after me as a nurse. She was a nurse back then too. And now she’s poisioning me. Killing me slowly. Slowly, and painfully.

My doctor’s name is Jeff. He’s about 35. Brown hair, dark eyes. Looks like me. Reminds me of my brother. My brother’s name is Jeff. I think. He’s a fairly nice guy. Good to his family. He’s pretty well off now, or so I hear. Has a nice life, back in our home town. Biiiiig house, european car. A cardio specialist, a doctor. Perfect kids, beautiful wife. I hear he’s got it made. I wouldn’t want his life for one second though. Still, it’s a pity I stopped speaking to him. It’s a pity that it was just because he didn’t pay me back the five grand he’d owed me in the time frame I’d specified. I mean, I’m not saying it was wrong of me to want the money back. But it’s a pity. I’ve never seen my neices and nephews. I don’t even know my own brother. And now I’m dying. And I never will know him. Maybe he hates me. Maybe this Jeff doctor guy is him. My cardio specialist who’s trying to save my life. Does he recognise me? Is he trying to kill me too? I feel it.. I feel it really strongly… My heart, it feels like I’m about to have an attack at anytime, like this great boulder just hanging over my chest, about to crush down at any second. I feel it on my chest. I feel it in my body. It’s killing me.

This entry was written on September 4, 2007 by Alexander van Zandt. It is about/includes mentions of life, people, regret. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.