I can’t escape the kwoosh kwoosh of the machine pumping me with morphine and I wish
they would just shut it off so I can spend my last days—or perhaps hours—
in peace. Hell of a way to go. Itchy sheets. Annoying plastic under the itchy
sheets. Ticking clock on the wall. Moans emanating from the other rooms.
Damn beeps and boops from the nurses’ station. Everyone trying to speak
in hushed whispers not realizing their muted conversations bounce off the
walls.
As if we don’t already know we are going to die.
The buzzing of the fly that’s been in my room for ten minutes may be the final nail in my
soon-to-be-inhabited coffin. I hate flies. Their buzz buzz buzz goes right
through me. And don’t get me started on the diseases they spread. I never
eat anything at a picnic or barbecue. No way. No how. Well, not that it
matters any more.
This incessant insect with wings reminds me of that summer I went to the Cape and those
pernicious green heads were everywhere, taking chunks of my flesh; no
different, I suppose, from the wingless carcinoma gnawing on my innards.
The one item of solace in this morbid dungeon of a room is the painting directly across
from me; its rich colors give spirit to the otherwise bleakness of the walls,
air, and my inner being. I stare at the canvas, wondering what the artist
was thinking when she painted it. Was she happy? In pain? Young? Old?
Hopeful? I have a brief moment of joy as I bathe in the beauty of the
landscape, as it reminds me of my youth.
The buzzing of the fly’s wings breaks me from my joyful trance.
The winged insect lands on the armrest of my bed. I may be old and weak
but I don’t miss a beat. This may be my final contribution to society. I lift up
my arm, the tubes and cords embedded in my epidermis moving in synch. I
drop my arm and whack the fly with my hand. He—and it’s definitely a he,
because it’s so annoying—flies through the air and lands on my stomach.
Dead. Like I’ll be soon.
I turn my attention back to the painting and smile.
Glenn H. Myers spends his days penning corporate memos; by night, he crafts fiction. His non-fiction work has been published in The Boston Globe. He spends his weekends seeking a literary agent for his first novel, THE FRENCH FRY DIET.