Young Writers Society

They had bleached the sheets again, of course. The bedfittings always came back, ironed to a fault and with a bitter aftertaste. No matter… there would be plenty of time for you to break them down, to shatter the crisp and stain the canvas. After all, that’s really what they were, sheets; a canvas, renewed daily, but always eager to soak in some new abstraction. A modern assimilation? Well here’s some steel for you to temper… the sheets would whisper, tangible in their measuring up.

The mirrors were gone. They had followed the books… certainly the pen would be next. But aren’t heartstroke and brushbeat even more desperate, aching in their forms?… the sheets put in. Ah, no matter. There was crimson ink enough. Padded paces slid into your mutterings. No, that wasn’t right, the footsteps were in the hall, surely leaving your tongue to its musings? The opening door left the question answered, but the syringe posed a new one. A shadow of adrenaline came over the orderly’s usually composed face. No…this wasn’t right.

‘Just a little prick, and it’ll all be over, Mr. Prawda’ but there was more, murmured under breath with the surety that only muteness can bring ‘all…over…’

Ah, well… can’t visuals have an epilogue? No. This wasn’t right, it couldn’t be. They must’ve gotten something wrong… all wrong. They’d have to do it over. All of it, over.

The orderly reached forward, and the nectar was pushed into your thigh. You swallow what’s left of your spit, hoping to drown that invading serum, which even now must be bleeding its way out, and down, and up. All…over… The sheets were in a heap beside the bed, and a white-coated person passed through the doorarch.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it. After Schiavo, there’s definite precedent. And really, isn’t it for the best?’

Panic was coursing through, perhaps it had been blended with that clear-white secretion the needle had brought. Regardless, you were desperate now; shouldn’t they have heard it in your heartbeat? That it was wrong. This wasn’t in the plan. They should have heard.

Well, they say an artist’s work is only appreciated after his death offered the sheets with a snicker. And your screaming heartbeat slowed, and your eyelids never fluttered to begin with, or they would’ve stopped by now. With the pen from the orderly’s pocket, ‘M’ was blotted onto the late Mr. Praw’s forehead, and the sheets were tossed into the skyblue hamper, destined for the wash and the Dry. No…that, among all this, was wrong. The wash and the Dye.