Of Life and Death By John Ritchie
I watch from across the road as Sharon braces herself for what’s to come. She pushes through the double doors and out of this bitter, January night. Inside the hospice I see a doctor, the weight of the world on his thin shoulders. He glances up from the notes he is reading and briefly looks at her.
Then the doors close.
As she walks on, the doctor stares at the cigarette in his hand, then drops it to the worn linoleum where he grinds it to powder under his shoe.
“Er…miss”, he begins, but she has gone.
Around the corner she rolls her shoulders to settle the new weight she carries. “Doctors!” She mutters to herself “You’d fink they’d know betta.”
Well, he at least, won’t end up a patient in his own hospice. Already, his lungs are repairing themselves at a speed that would astonish him if he knew. She has just given him the gift of life, but he doesn’t know that either. Later, when he sits filling out the endless paperwork that accompanies death, even in a place where people come to die, the doctor will notice a pack of cigarettes in his desk drawer and wonder how they got there. After all he hasn’t smoked since...
Periodically the purr of rubber wheels passes his office door as another body is moved to the mortuary in the basement. Nine in less than an hour. What a night!
Trudging home over rutted, ice-crusted slush, Sharon considers lying down in some quiet corner where she won’t be disturbed until morning; by which time, of course, she’d be long gone. But she knows it isn’t really an option. Not for her. She has tried that dodge too often.
She’s here for a while yet.
She forces her way past the wheelless shopping trolley some comedian has left behind the main door and, ignoring the lift which hasn’t worked for months, begins the climb to her tiny flat.
Walking wearily past her bedroom, she edges around the sagging armchair in the lounge and kneels before the plaster figurine on the window ledge.
“Sweet Jesus,” she groans, “how much longer.” Then, head bowed. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” My heart goes out to her, and I feel her daughter’s hand squeezing mine as we watch.
She wakes, cramped with cold, lying on top of her un-made bed. “Dunno, why people worry abaht goin’ to ‘ell: ’least it’ll be warm.”
Outside, the sun glares at her, but spitefully ignores the ice under her feet. Lurching along the road to the old people’s home, head down, struggling to stay upright, she sees my motorcycle boots planted squarely in her path. Already weighed down with the pain awaiting her, she is ready to snarl and push past when she sees my outstretched hand.
“I ain’t got nuffink’ ”, she mutters reflexively.
“Oh, but I think you have.” I say.
She squints up at me, as though she recognises my voice.
“You have the gift don’t you?” I continue, “ The gift of life and death.”
“How do you…
“Know? Can’t you guess? I am here to take it from you. You have carried the weight long enough, now it is my turn to purge my soul.”
“You too?”
“Yes, me too. I killed three others when I killed myself. So I have twice as much work to do as you. Your daughter is looking forward to being with you again. She has worked hard for your release.”
I see Sharon's eyes fill with happy tears. Tears that spill as I push her under a passing lorry.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/24765/of-life-and-death to download
Then the doors close.
As she walks on, the doctor stares at the cigarette in his hand, then drops it to the worn linoleum where he grinds it to powder under his shoe.
“Er…miss”, he begins, but she has gone.
Around the corner she rolls her shoulders to settle the new weight she carries. “Doctors!” She mutters to herself “You’d fink they’d know betta.”
Well, he at least, won’t end up a patient in his own hospice. Already, his lungs are repairing themselves at a speed that would astonish him if he knew. She has just given him the gift of life, but he doesn’t know that either. Later, when he sits filling out the endless paperwork that accompanies death, even in a place where people come to die, the doctor will notice a pack of cigarettes in his desk drawer and wonder how they got there. After all he hasn’t smoked since...
Periodically the purr of rubber wheels passes his office door as another body is moved to the mortuary in the basement. Nine in less than an hour. What a night!
Trudging home over rutted, ice-crusted slush, Sharon considers lying down in some quiet corner where she won’t be disturbed until morning; by which time, of course, she’d be long gone. But she knows it isn’t really an option. Not for her. She has tried that dodge too often.
She’s here for a while yet.
She forces her way past the wheelless shopping trolley some comedian has left behind the main door and, ignoring the lift which hasn’t worked for months, begins the climb to her tiny flat.
Walking wearily past her bedroom, she edges around the sagging armchair in the lounge and kneels before the plaster figurine on the window ledge.
“Sweet Jesus,” she groans, “how much longer.” Then, head bowed. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” My heart goes out to her, and I feel her daughter’s hand squeezing mine as we watch.
She wakes, cramped with cold, lying on top of her un-made bed. “Dunno, why people worry abaht goin’ to ‘ell: ’least it’ll be warm.”
Outside, the sun glares at her, but spitefully ignores the ice under her feet. Lurching along the road to the old people’s home, head down, struggling to stay upright, she sees my motorcycle boots planted squarely in her path. Already weighed down with the pain awaiting her, she is ready to snarl and push past when she sees my outstretched hand.
“I ain’t got nuffink’ ”, she mutters reflexively.
“Oh, but I think you have.” I say.
She squints up at me, as though she recognises my voice.
“You have the gift don’t you?” I continue, “ The gift of life and death.”
“How do you…
“Know? Can’t you guess? I am here to take it from you. You have carried the weight long enough, now it is my turn to purge my soul.”
“You too?”
“Yes, me too. I killed three others when I killed myself. So I have twice as much work to do as you. Your daughter is looking forward to being with you again. She has worked hard for your release.”
I see Sharon's eyes fill with happy tears. Tears that spill as I push her under a passing lorry.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/24765/of-life-and-death to download