Sunnydale's Outdated Axiom.
Crickets.
Sunnydale Rest Home. 7pm. Most of the geezers were sleeping, or walking aimlessly, or screaming in a language that even if you COULD speak the native tongue, it was likely to be gibberish anyhow.
Which will take us shortly to the sanctity of life.
That was quick.
Gladys had just been thrown into bed by a group of understaffed, underpayed, under-equpped, and overtly unempathic caregivers. She was tossed and turned from side to side like a pinball machine only without the pleasurable aspect of enjoying a pinball machine. Finally in bed, after being condescended to by two incompetant mutants who didn't give a fuck about anything other than their iphones, which they stared at constantly when they weren't talking about her and complaining about taking care of her. Even though they barely took care of her.
They barely took care of themselves. Tthey have televisions and cinnamon flavored dental floss and tablet computers and cars they'll never pay off until peak oil runs out and everyones looting in the street to do that for them. For now. Gladys smiled.
She knew they were doomed, and she didn't get angry. She could speak but most assumed her mute.
She spoke sometimes, but mostly not. When she did no one paid any attention.
She wished for euthanasia, but didn't have the strength to load a gun and shoot herself, should she be able to leave the sanitized dungeon her horrible family dumped her in ten years prior.
Ironic, the place prides itself on compassion and quality of life, she'd never seen it, and neither have I. Who am I? Who cares. Call me the little birdie in the window. This birdie was a chirpin' this evening, but a sullen silence fell before me suddenly as if hit by a silver bullet straight through the whistling cunts of a thousand swans.
Gladys rang for the nurse. She had something to say. Finally. She had something to fucking say.
She rang her bell.
A gallerous old nurse in some sort of trampy uniform that supposedly passed for scrubs with the eyes of 17 hour shifts, pernicious anemia, amphetamine psychosis and malnourished vicious dumb hate walked in 30 minutes later. She must have been busy on her iphone.
"What is it Gladys." The desensitized woman didn't even bother looking up from her phone while Gladys painfully raised her left hand - the only one she could move mind you - and beckoned her to come close. In her head she was fuming, but she didn't have energy or the physical capacity to express this.
"I have a question."
"What is it Gladys I'm going on my break at 12 you know that!" She screamed in distaste. It was 11:37. Her ugly yellow teeth told gladys what she was so concerned about in having that break.
"On the front of the door there is a sign that says 'time heals all wounds. I've been staring at it against my will for ten years."
"....And?" she crooned, patronizing the poor old thing.
Gladys closed her eyes a second. She then uscled up every ounce of strength she had left, struck out and grabbed the bitches clipboard attached to her neck twisting it tight slinging young wretch within in an inch of her withered, wise, gentle, once-loving mouth while the nurse tried to scream in pain, but couldn't. I think she have broken the bitches windpipe. Guess I'm the only birdie be singin' tonight, but the look in the eyes of Gladys Downing said otherwise.
The nurse was frozen in terror.
Gladys let her squirm a minute, revelling in the fear finally being turned around on the monger just before she went off to that campground beyond the sun and left this ridiculous planet. She had something to say and say it before it was gone.
In vociferous fury screaming into the womans soul, twisting the bloody rope around the wenches neck writhing in pain she blared like a cannon in heat:
"THEN WHY AM I STILL BLEEDING?!"