~*~*~*~ Authors' note~*~*~*~ Yeah, this is rough. Really rough, but its a new idea and I'd like to get some feedback on it. Have'atter!
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And I remember where I was.
You know, like when people say they can remember where they were when the towers went down, or when Lennon was shot.
I remember.
The burnt umber pleather of the hospital chair fused itself to my skin where ever they met. It's surface was sticky with decades of worry. The walls were painted with worry, instruments glistened with it, it dripped from everything.
Apprehension held the room together. In a way this was comforting,The acrid smell of assurance that I was not the first to bleed anxiety and grim expectation into this room.
The chair was pulled alongside my father’s bed, angled and close enough that I could reach him with ease, but far enough that there was no chance of getting tangled in the clear tubing that tied him to this world.
We watched TV.
Even now the guilt sits heavy in my stomach. The sour stones of wasted time. Those few precious hours ticked by with every flip of the channel. We should have spent them better. Our last days together should have been spent sharing stories and philosophies, bloated with tales of love and life. The time before ones’ own death should, by rights, be the most poignant of one’s life. Instead we silently sat absorbing primetime television, steadfastly ignoring the truth as it hung in the air greasy and swollen, threatening to smother us.
Once upon a time, my Father was a giant. The stuff of Legend. He was a man who could save the world with a simple embrace or,drive away demons with the flick of a light switch. My father was a cloud art master, a school project genius, and the Patron saint of injured or stray animals. Were he not so modest, millions would have paid for a morsel of his macaroni and cheese.
…. But even giants are subject to statistic. When 1.7 out of every 2 people would eventually fall victim to cancer there was very little chance of escape. It was crafty, and devious. Sneaking in and planting itself like a leach, gradually leaking in to every muscle and fiber until it was too late, too deep. Then slowly it would suck you dry. All that is left is a paper tribute of the person that once was. That’s if you survived. More often than not the cancer would feast until there was nothing left but a hole in the world.
So we watched TV.Thrusting the monster back under the hospital bed for as long as possible.
It was the news hour. The same stories in different colors and different lights repeated on every channel. Understandably I wasn’t really paying attention. What good is ever on the news anyway?
Tiny bleached words reeled along the bottom of the screen, and a large fore-headed news anchor drawled on at a low volume, when a word caught my eye.
“Cure”
My fingers fumbled quickly for the volume. The crescendo of the arrogant voice of the anchor filled our undersized room.
“–eries of successful injections are now being made available to the general public. Scientists at the University of Cambridge claim the injections can defeat even the most severe stage 4 cancers. The procedure deemed less invasive then chemo or radiation therapies and with a much higher survival rate has been app-“
The world released its’ collective breath as the bobbing chin of the news anchor repeated words no one could really have ever hoped to hear. Someday soon, cancer would be another passage in the pages of history. Like Polio or leprosy.
Small bolts of electricity danced through me as I turned to my Father. His hand I hadn’t realized I was gripping- probably a little too hard. Impossible expectation swelled within me tightening my throat. I couldn’t speak.
I didn’t have to.
My father smiled. A fine crack in the shell of an egg. He patted my hand, the touch no more than that of a dropped piece of paper. He shook his head so slightly that it may not have happened at all.
That was enough though.
That small twitch contained the power to crush the new born hope forming within that room. And in that moment for the first time in my life, I hated my Father.
Not one week later I would bury my Father next to my Mother in an old but well kept Catholic graveyard, in a small town he never lived in.
For him, I didn't cry.
Turns out, my father was one of the lucky ones.
My back spasms unexpectedly (which I guess, is what a spasm is, when you think about it). I clutch the tree beneath me to keep from toppling from the canopy. I stretch out as best I can without drawing attention to myself. It’s too light yet to leave the trees safely. Why take chances when you don't have to?
Waiting for dusk is a tantalizing idea as well, due to the fact that there was a small warren of rabbits at the base of my resting place. Admittedly I am no great hunter, however after weeks of scrounging vegetation - I'd kill for some real meat. Visions of roasting rabbits dance in the horizon as the sun crawls overhead. I can see the juices dripping from the bodies as they are held over a golden crackling fire. My mouth waters and I can already feel the meat between my teeth. I would chew it to mush. Churning and grinding it till there was nothing left but satisfaction.
Wrapped as I am in delicious delusions, I don’t notice the faint scuffling till it is almost below me.
Every muscle froze. I’m high enough to be out of reach, I’m sure; still I have no desire to spend the next 3 days under siege in the tree tops. The Gimps are not known for being clever. In fact what little life skills they possessed could certainly be considered baseline, however they are supremely persistent. Once their deformed minds clasp onto something they are not likely to give up for a while.
I watch, silent from branched balcony. The creature approaches without care of any kind, lolloping through the discarded foliage. It was a she, and she was very young. She couldn’t have been much older than 6 or 7 when she was inoculated.
Cancer would have been kinder.
My stomach clenches at the sight of her. She’s wretched. What hair she has is matted against her scalp, doing its best to obscure the scarred and sunburned areas where large chunks have been removed, scalp and all. She’s not thin, which I supposed could be considered a blessing. (The serum affected everyone differently. Some suffered a raised metabolism, to the point where they were driven by the need for food. Eating all the time, whatever they could get their hands on. Eventually their bodies would consume themselves, but that’s better than some disease wasting you away, right?).
The infantile thing looks mostly human, if you ignored the grotesque bulge in her spine which forced her to all fours. Or if you could block out the sight of her feet, bent and folded in half the calloused soles and absent toes gave them the look of an infected hoof. She is missing an eye. An injury which obviously had not received medical attention of any kind before it healed. The ragged scar tissue now imbedded into her socket. It looks like a belly button marring her once cherubic face.
She was someone’s beautiful little girl once.
She shuffles through the fallen leaves and twigs of the forest floor. Rooting around like a truffle pig. Emitting noises no earthly creature - let alone a child- should ever make. I silently order her to leave as she roots closer and closer to my rabbits. Hunger makes you do things you would not normally do. Though death would be more than a kindness to this...thing, I still have reservations about killing the Gimps. They were human once after all, and this was still a child. However, call me selfish. There is a slight chance that this poor pathetic beast was as hungry as I was; but there is no room for charity left in this world. We can’t afford it. Darwin was right, survival of the fittest insures the species, and I am endangered.
So are those rabbits. I feel the fierce hunger in my belly. If it comes down to it I will protect what was mine. We will fight, and I will win.
Quietly I sit, waiting as she scuffles about the base of the tree. Each grunt and squeal clawing through me. The wind blows time beyond the trees and still the thing circles, scratching and pawing around the roots, stopping for an instant here and there to gaze off in the direction from which she came.
The sun drifts down to kiss the horizon, and still she orbits my refuge.
I wait.
Night dyes the sky. The murmuring voice in my head who has been addressing me all afternoon, only grows louder with the absence of light. My back does not fancy another night poised and stiff against the bark. My legs moan, tight and unhappy. My stomach cries out for the meal I’ve promised it. Even the constant scraping below can’t silence them. “We just have to wait!” I quietly scold.
There was nothing left to do.
I lean back and close my eyes. Sleep is an anxious visitor. He waits patiently on the edges of my reach waiting for the slightest invitation, when he will quietly wrap me in his arms and cradle me for as long as I would allow.
