#and once they cannot put you down anymore they SCUTTLE haha

[evaandnonotlikewalle]

Pirates Have More Fun

His hair is thinning in the back. I never noticed that before. Odd, isn’t it, how I can wake up to that man every day for twenty-three years and not notice how his hair looks in the back? Now, he is turned away from me, and the light from the window makes the room look more sterile, if that is even possible. The hospital gown exposes his back and I can see the faint curve of his spine. I bite my nails and stare at the expanse of his shoulders and the dimples at the base of his neck where his vertebrae begin.

           “How is he doing?” a deep voice whispers from behind me. I turn around and see his ID badge flashing at me nearly as bright as his smile. I had forgotten how bright that smile was.

           “Fine. He’s just sleeping. Been doing it all morning.”

           “You shouldn’t do that,” he orders with a barely hidden smirk.

           “What?” I blurt.

           “Bite your nails. It only ruins them.”

           I pull my hand away from my face, realizing I had been talking through my fingers this whole time. My nails are now jagged and the polish is chipping away.

           “Then again,” he continues, walking toward the bed, “I told you that all the time back in the day. You didn’t listen then and it looks like my words still have yet to resonate with you.”

           “I’m afraid they haven’t. It’s a bad but permanent habit.”

           He picks up the clipboard hanging from the end of the bed and examines it. He squints at it, wrinkles gathering at the corner of his eyes.

           “The nurse came in about an hour ago and replaced his IV,” I inform him.

“I can see that, right here, actually,” he says pointing the paper with his pen.

“Of course!”

I begin to chew at my nails again and tuck my legs under me. “Of course. Of course you can,” I mumble into my hand.

He nods his head, looks at me once, and puts the chart back. “Well, his surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. So, the nurses will be in and out prepping him for that. As for me, I’ll come before he goes in tomorrow. Expect me around eight. Until then, have a good day.”

           He walks past, but not without gently squeezing my hand as it rests limply on the arm of the chair.

           “No need to be nervous,” he assures me with a slow grin.

He leaves and I am left with Michael breathing deeply in sleep. He doesn’t move for hours, only sighing every half hour or so. I sit and read the novel that everyone at the office had been recommending but I never got the chance to start. As I read, his soft snoring scores the action on the page and an itch begins in my feet. Soon the itch travels to my legs and finally to my scalp. I stare at his balding head, biting the insides of my cheeks to the point of bleeding. I dig my toes into the soles of my shoes and slam the book down on the ground beside me.

           I shuffle over so I can see his face and lean in close. He is still breathing heavily and living with him for twenty-three years, I know he isn’t roused from sleep easily.

“Michael, I swear, if this surgery somehow goes wrong, I might…” I chide with a whisper and stare at the ceiling. I notice a spider, black and quick, crawling toward the window. Just before it reaches the window pane it diverts and scuttles into the corner where a small web has been made.

           I sit and read until visiting hours are over. I could stay overnight and keep him company but I don’t think I could take being here anymore. The suffocating quiet of this room while he struts through the hospital halls gnaws at me and makes me squirm. I have to leave; I just have to. I kiss Michael’s balding head and sigh a goodbye. Heading for the elevator, he is suddenly there walking down the hall, tormenting me with his kind smile and cheerful hello’s to those who pass him. I stand there for a moment and just watch him in action. He spots me and stops almost immediately.  

           “Hi, there! Heading out?” he asks.

           “Yeah, appears so,” I reply, shrugging my winter-jacketed shoulders and turning my gaze slightly away, pretending as if I wasn’t staring.

           “I just have to say, you look just as you did when I left for school,” he marvels.

           Tucking my hair behind my ears, “God, I hope not. I had mascara running down my face and my hair was bigger than Dolly Parton’s.”

           He laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, sorry about that, again,” he sighs.

He shakes his head slightly and smiles once again, “Well, let’s just say you look fantastic. You really do. I’m not putting you on.” He waves his hands and shakes his head fervently. He stares down at me and just grins. I almost wish he would stop. Almost.

           “Thank you.” I can’t bring my eyes to look at his face. Already I can feel the color rising in my cheeks.

           “We should catch up some time. Over coffee, maybe?”

           I can barely contain myself, my calm façade melting away onto the tile floor, “Sure. I would love that.”

           “Good. I don’t know what I would have done if you had said no,” he chuckles to himself. “We’ll arrange it after surgery, then.”

           “Sounds great. Well, good night, Sam,” I say as I fumble to grab my gloves from my pocket, unable to look away from him face, expecting him to take it back, expecting this to be some sort of dream.

           “Yeah. Good night, Marianne.” Hurriedly, he leans down and pecks my cheek. I immediately blush. If that didn’t wake me up, then surely this must be real. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

           “Good night,” I repeat loudly as I nearly run into the open elevator. I shuffle into my spot in the cramped space and peek from under my brow as the doors close. He smiles and gives a half-wave.

           When I reach the car and buckle up, I nearly forget to turn on the heat. The flushing of my face is making my sweat lightly under my coat. During the drive home, every song is either too loud or too soft, so I turn it off and drive the half hour home in silence. This time, this silence is absolute bliss; just the sound of the old engine revving away and the tires spinning over the flattened and salted snow.

I get home and check the voicemail; Mom and Dad say the kids are angels and should visit more often. I stare at the kitchen pantry for a while and roll my eyes at the abundance of not-quite-good-enough food, so I opt out of making myself a decent meal and stuff potato chips and dip into my face while I watch television. The blaring of the actor’s voices and the brightness of the screen soon give me a headache and I decide to go to bed early.

I change into my oh-so-sexy pajamas of an old sorority t-shirt and sweatpants and stagger into the bathroom, covering my eyes from the overhead lights. After teeth brushing and make-up removing, I close my eyes and exit the bathroom, only to nearly slip on Evan’s toy dagger that came with his pirate Halloween costume. I pick it up, staring into the plastic rubies and graze my fingers along the silver carvings. I juggle it between my hands and shake my head. I run my hand along the dull plastic and imagine it slicing the skin of my palm with fearful ease, blood dripping onto the polished hardwood. I cock an eyebrow and stick the dagger into the gap between my pants and hip while swaggering into the bedroom. I observe the empty room, turning in a slow 360, and grin. I whip the dagger out and point it at an invisible foe.

“I have you now, sir!” I cry into the empty space. “You cannot escape!”

I chase the foe around the room with jabs and grunts, finally pinning him to the bed under my weight. His imaginary head rests on Michael’s pillow and sneers up at me, daring me to make the final move. I glare at him and plunge the dagger into the pillow, cackling.

“You thought I couldn’t do it! You thought I couldn’t do it, you smug idiot! But I did! Haha! I did!”

I stare at the pillow, feathers poking out of the hole I’ve made. I pull out the dagger and stare at it once again. The plastic rubies glint at me, and I begin to sob, my body convulsing with gasps. I sob into the torn pillow and smother my face in his scent. I think of coffee and blood transfusions, gagging on my tears and memories. I can’t help but hope, hope for the worst. Is it awful if I were to hope? Is it terrible to hope for such things? I lie there, head buried in his pillow, expecting to dream of sword fights and sea chanteys, and as I drift to sleep, I finger the dagger’s cold, hard plastic and dub myself Captain Mantis.

#fiction #short fiction #original fiction #original writing