Thursday, January 9, 2014

Dying

This is another one of those small pieces I wrote while sitting in class. Sometimes the lines are so blurry when it comes to poetry and prose. I'm just gonna call this one prose because it doesn't really have a form to it. But on the other hand, you could argue that it does. Either way, it's basically a story with imagery.

(c) A.F. 2/16/12

Beep. Beep. Beep.
That's the sound of my heart monitor echoing in my ear, like the ominous ticking of the Crocodile.
Beep. Beep. Beep. 
Twenty-four hours.
That's how long they've given me.
I wonder what it will feel like when I go.
Will it be painful? Will I even be conscious?
Twenty-four hours.
How shall my final moments be spent?
Confined to my bed? Needles stuck into my skin, picking and pinching; leaving angry purple bruises.
Confined to my bed.
A faded curtain drawn around me; a barrier between the land of the living and those who have lost all hope.
A curtain that reeks like plastic bed sheets, the kind that keep toddlers from urinating on their mattresses.
Beep. Beep. Beep. 
That's the sound of my life tick-ticking away, the noise that my hair made when it started to fall out.
Twenty-four hours.
To stare at the grey dust collecting on the white-washed walls. To think. To cry.
Confined to my bed.
Hooked up to an I.V., forced to let go of the past - and the future.
A curtain drawn around me, faded.
Not at all like the curtains strung up for the dance tonight. A dance that I will never get to see.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I'm already gone.

(c) A.F. 2/16/12

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