I brushed my teeth for 20 minutes tonight. They sure as hell must be clean. You see, as soon as I started, I had this idea, and I could not leave until it was fully formed. I hoe you enjoy this. As usual, any feedbakc is welcome.
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Killing Time
As the old man slipped the syringe beneath his sun speckled skin, he thought of what he had just done. As the clear fluid passed through the needle and into his veins, he though of his wife,the only person in his life he had ever truly loved, the person that had been inflicted with cancer at the age of 47. The needle falls from the mans hands and lands softly on the flowered quilt, the one his beautiful wife had loved so much. Memories came flooding back to him as this clear liquid tried to make him sleep. Fighting to keep his eyes open, one final flashback made him realise what he had done.
At the exact moment his eyes flickerd shut, the most vivid and realistic flashback he could ever imagine took over his mind.
"Goodnight dear" says the man as he bends over his wife, her once sweet fragrance now reeking of death and solitude. His dry lips touch her forehead as her brittle hands reach up to touch his face.
"love you" she replies, in a weak leathery voice.
The man exits the room, turning the lamp off as he passes. He walks into the living room, and lets out a sigh of desperation as he falls into his leather rocker. Reaching down the side of his favourite but time worn chair, the man pulls onto his lap a small breifcase, with the label Dr. Kensington carefully applied to it. For once, after opening the case, he is not greeted by loose papers that need to be filled for the next day, the case is empty bar a small box. The releif of not seeing those papers is greatly outweighed by the thoughts in his head though, and a mind at ease he is not. His fragile fingers pick up the small white cardboard box, and carefully pull open the top flap. From within he draws a tiny jar, still safety sealed and sparkling clean. without his glasses he cannot read the label, but it matters not one bit, for today he carefully pulled this very jar off the shelf boxed it himself. Carefully he closes the breifcase and puts it back in its place, then pockets the small jar. Turning on the tv he leans backwards until his balding scalp gently falls into the wonderfull softness of his chair. Now the waiting shall begin.
Watching ones wife wither away is something no man should have to endure thought the doctor. Nothing that had ever happened to him could ever compare to the day by day onslaught that cancer had waged upon his wife. In the beginning there was hope to rely on, but that faded quickly. Chemo led to more chemo led to more chemo, none of it doing anything but quicken the decaying of her frail self. To see her become unable to do things she had done her whole life was torture enough, but to see her mind slowly going blank was even worse. Nothing it seemed could help, not even a doctor. like himself.
He awoke out of the dreamy concioussness to find that more time had passed than he had planned. Slowly and carefully he brings himself up and out of the chair, the effects of time itself having already won half the battle against him. As he walks down the short hallway to the bedroom, he reflects upon the pictures that line the wall. Each one is a memory that he can think of immediatly, each one stirs emotions that will never be forgotten. He reaches the bedroom door and places a trembling hand upon the knob, slowly turning it and pushing to door open. There in front of him lay his wife, breathing in her now natural way, a ragged collection of in and outs before one big sigh. He sits on the bed next to her, stroking the heair away from her face, and a tear forms in his eye. Reasoning with himself, he knows what he has come to do, and plans to go through with it. Every fiber in his body is reassuring himself of it, because his mind is unsure. His hand drifts away from her face and up to his chest pocket, where it casually plucks the tiny jar from is resting place. His whole life of honesty traded in on the theft of this litle jar he muses.
"Heaven will have to forgive my two mistakes" he thinks to himself.
And from the same pocket he pulls a needle. Wanting to act before his mind can challenge, he plunges the needle through the top of the jar, and draws the clear liquid up within. Leaning over his wife, he carefully pulls her arm out from under the covers and leans in. The needles sharp tip glides effortlessly through her skin, and he releases the toxin from within the needle. Free to roam within her blood. Morphine. Too much of it.
Now the second guessing begins, but it is all forgotten when he stands up. His back hurts, a reminder of the war time has waged against him and his wife. And one thought crossess his mind...
He walks to the other side of the bed and lays down next to his dead wife. As he refills the needle, the one thought that rings so true once again becomes the focus of his mind.
"I'm just killing time is all. Just Killing time."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's late, so Ignore any errors. No time to word process it first.
Peace..
PiHKAL
------------------
When I look at where I've been
And I think of where I'm going
I find that both roads bend in
same directions, ever flowing.....
-Caress, the artist whose paint is words...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Killing Time
As the old man slipped the syringe beneath his sun speckled skin, he thought of what he had just done. As the clear fluid passed through the needle and into his veins, he though of his wife,the only person in his life he had ever truly loved, the person that had been inflicted with cancer at the age of 47. The needle falls from the mans hands and lands softly on the flowered quilt, the one his beautiful wife had loved so much. Memories came flooding back to him as this clear liquid tried to make him sleep. Fighting to keep his eyes open, one final flashback made him realise what he had done.
At the exact moment his eyes flickerd shut, the most vivid and realistic flashback he could ever imagine took over his mind.
"Goodnight dear" says the man as he bends over his wife, her once sweet fragrance now reeking of death and solitude. His dry lips touch her forehead as her brittle hands reach up to touch his face.
"love you" she replies, in a weak leathery voice.
The man exits the room, turning the lamp off as he passes. He walks into the living room, and lets out a sigh of desperation as he falls into his leather rocker. Reaching down the side of his favourite but time worn chair, the man pulls onto his lap a small breifcase, with the label Dr. Kensington carefully applied to it. For once, after opening the case, he is not greeted by loose papers that need to be filled for the next day, the case is empty bar a small box. The releif of not seeing those papers is greatly outweighed by the thoughts in his head though, and a mind at ease he is not. His fragile fingers pick up the small white cardboard box, and carefully pull open the top flap. From within he draws a tiny jar, still safety sealed and sparkling clean. without his glasses he cannot read the label, but it matters not one bit, for today he carefully pulled this very jar off the shelf boxed it himself. Carefully he closes the breifcase and puts it back in its place, then pockets the small jar. Turning on the tv he leans backwards until his balding scalp gently falls into the wonderfull softness of his chair. Now the waiting shall begin.
Watching ones wife wither away is something no man should have to endure thought the doctor. Nothing that had ever happened to him could ever compare to the day by day onslaught that cancer had waged upon his wife. In the beginning there was hope to rely on, but that faded quickly. Chemo led to more chemo led to more chemo, none of it doing anything but quicken the decaying of her frail self. To see her become unable to do things she had done her whole life was torture enough, but to see her mind slowly going blank was even worse. Nothing it seemed could help, not even a doctor. like himself.
He awoke out of the dreamy concioussness to find that more time had passed than he had planned. Slowly and carefully he brings himself up and out of the chair, the effects of time itself having already won half the battle against him. As he walks down the short hallway to the bedroom, he reflects upon the pictures that line the wall. Each one is a memory that he can think of immediatly, each one stirs emotions that will never be forgotten. He reaches the bedroom door and places a trembling hand upon the knob, slowly turning it and pushing to door open. There in front of him lay his wife, breathing in her now natural way, a ragged collection of in and outs before one big sigh. He sits on the bed next to her, stroking the heair away from her face, and a tear forms in his eye. Reasoning with himself, he knows what he has come to do, and plans to go through with it. Every fiber in his body is reassuring himself of it, because his mind is unsure. His hand drifts away from her face and up to his chest pocket, where it casually plucks the tiny jar from is resting place. His whole life of honesty traded in on the theft of this litle jar he muses.
"Heaven will have to forgive my two mistakes" he thinks to himself.
And from the same pocket he pulls a needle. Wanting to act before his mind can challenge, he plunges the needle through the top of the jar, and draws the clear liquid up within. Leaning over his wife, he carefully pulls her arm out from under the covers and leans in. The needles sharp tip glides effortlessly through her skin, and he releases the toxin from within the needle. Free to roam within her blood. Morphine. Too much of it.
Now the second guessing begins, but it is all forgotten when he stands up. His back hurts, a reminder of the war time has waged against him and his wife. And one thought crossess his mind...
He walks to the other side of the bed and lays down next to his dead wife. As he refills the needle, the one thought that rings so true once again becomes the focus of his mind.
"I'm just killing time is all. Just Killing time."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's late, so Ignore any errors. No time to word process it first.
Peace..
PiHKAL
------------------
When I look at where I've been
And I think of where I'm going
I find that both roads bend in
same directions, ever flowing.....
-Caress, the artist whose paint is words...