Emotionless

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's all coming back to me now - Celine Dion

Submitted: August 21, 2015

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Submitted: August 21, 2015

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He dresses me in a navy blue gown and lies me down. I reach automatically for the covers, feeling around, finding nothing. Then I squint, and see a pile of white at my feet.

I motion to sit up, but he scurries to my side and gently slides the thin fabric over my legs, abdomen, and chest. Leaning over, he grabs a pillow from the floor and props me a little higher from behind. Then he takes a few steps back, and stares at me.

Like he did yesterday. And the day before that.

He seems to have something to say. Or is it self-reassurance? I haven't a clue as to what that might be.

As always, I look back at him. Right into those little, round, focused black dots.

Like this, we stay silent for a few more seconds. Our breathing, his paced a little faster than mine, resonate through the still air as the only sign of life. 

Finally, he breaks his gaze and turns away. I watch his lips part slightly, and his mouth opens and closes to speak a few words before I lose sight of him as he slips out the door. It creaks to a close, softly. I can't make out his words.

I'm all alone.

I sigh, make myself comfortable, and give my consciousness to the surroundings...

Light streams in from my only window to create a puddle of stunning color on the wooden floor below. Once again, as always.

A bird chirps at an earsplitting pitch just outside my room. It sounds muffled, but clear enough that I flinch.

If I listen closely, I can even make out a car or two in the far distance.

I think I'm in a good mood today.

So I ask myself a question I never dared to ask myself before.

What in the world are you doing?

I'm sitting on my deathbed.

I'm not really doing anything...

But I really want to smile now.

How do I do that?

I smile.

And it hurts, as I have never smiled before.

An overwhelming sensation erupts from deep inside my body. Or was it my heart? Or perhaps something even further: my soul?

Almost immediately afterwards, the left corner of my lip twitches in rebellion, and I begin to doubt the genuinicity of my emotions. Why should I care for such trivial indifferences of life? Not that there is much more time anyway.

And that's when it started.

Salty droplets of water rained out and onto my blanket. They course down my cheeks with a mysterious abundance of vitality. Soon, my blanket is damp in several splotchy areas, leaving my clothes exposed underneath.

I wipe at the endless with the back of a hand. Again. And yet again. My knuckles turn white with initial shock, and then red from the rubbing. I silently command my other hand to do the same, and yet, these...these tears...won't stop.

Damn.

I clutch the soiled blanket with a fist and slowly drag myself into an upright fetal position. Bringing the blanket to my face, I hide, weeping.

I'm not sad, nor depressed, or remorseful.

Maybe just angry.

But I don't know.

And I have yet to learn the meaning of regret.

What in the world were you doing? ...

What in the world weren't you doing?

 

 

 


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