There was a dreadful silence when the Doctor stood still in the office, to the point if you hushed your thoughts for long enough I swear you could hear the blood coursing through his veins. This was ignoring the flatline – I must stress. That single sour note rang out like a nail on a chalkboard for long enough that it eventually just became part of the atmosphere. Speaking of which, I am no longer in excruciating pain, which fortunately gives me a moment to take note of my surroundings. The doctor muttered something, jotted something on his paper, and scampered out, leaving me truly alone.
It’s a windy day, outside, with frigid weather on top of that. Too gloomy for May, I think, but appropriate for my demise. I’m sure my heartbroken family members will make some tragic comment about how even the Earth is grieving for me – but that just makes me wonder about all the sunny days when others perished. The gusts are pushing the tree outside the frosted window, its arm extended towards my corpse, trying to scratch its way in like my old dog from childhood left outside. So much urgency, for what? Somebody better be dying.
That was my attempt at being funny.
The tiles are checkered – much like the ones back in my old kitchen. I would hop lackadaisically across the panels, imagining some were lava. My mom was cooking up something simple yet comforting for dinner. Sometimes my nose caught a brief flash from the food court and thought it was her cooking – and then the pain from my stomach would claw at my throat and lunge back up to my brain and remind me where I was.
There’s paintings on the wall. They’re very colorful – too colorful for a room where people die, I believe. I never had a moment to take note of these before. The trees are a certain shade of green – like an olive. That was the color of my bedroom’s walls, I can recall now. Momma would cradle me in her arms while I wailed, humming a sweet, soft tune I no longer remember. I wish she held me while I passed on, but I don’t know where she is.
But there were these split seconds during my final days. I would think the fan was her. The metallic droning eventually started to form itself into a note, and I imagined she was in the room with me. Humming me to sleep again.
It’s such a comforting feeling, actually. I’m dead, yes. But if I close my eyes… I’m in the kitchen. My dog is scratching to be let in. My mom is humming a tune.
It’s beautiful.
