V. H. King's Ink

“It hurts.  Everything, it just fucking hurts.”

Strain.  Tiredness in her voice, like overcooked spaghetti.  That was her body.  I could feel the steam on my face.  The froth of her spirit, frustrated with the world.  Weary, wanting relief, and yet fighting.  Always fighting the pain, even as she bore it.

“It’s not a good feeling.”

I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say.  I don’t know if I’m saying it, but I know she must hear it.  She needs to.

“So you’ve had it too.”

No accusation in that tone.  Her voice is more like pale sunlight now.  I think of old women in hospital beds.  A window across from me with curtains that are yellow only because they are thin and old.  A glass of water on a tray and something bright green in the corner of my eye.  I can’t turn my head to look at it because I must keep my eyes on her.

Grey and blue in her hair.  A barely-there bubble of light in the breathing tubes in her nostrils.  Maybe it’s the oxygen tank that’s green in my periphery.  It brings to mind balloon animals at a child’s birthday party.  No one is laughing.  Even more faint than the light in the tube is a reflection in the window.  A face I can’t quite see.  But it is looking at me and I am looking at her and we are all waiting. 

Keeping watch with no small measure of trust.

“It’s not a good feeling,” I say again.  “But it is a feeling.  And that is good.”

I keep my voice level.  Neutral.  The emphasis slides from one word to the other in my ears.  I don’t know how she hears me.

“He has a scythe.”   

I wonder if he can see him.  I think not, but she can feel him.  Her eyes are not closed, but I’ve never seen what color they are.  She stares at the ceiling, and I am certain I will never come into her focus.

“Let it hurt.” The words, gentle whispers.  “Let the pain exist.”

I am tempted to take the time to think—Am I really helping?  She takes my hand and squeezes, forcing my thoughts to flee.  It is cool, her skin.  Like she’s been under a fan, or sitting near the air conditioning.  It is warm, her grip.  Like she is reaching for relief, or forgiveness. 

I’ve seen your face.

I know your name, now.

The barely-there reflection barely nods.  A faceless tilt of the head; the movement is miniscule and monumental.  Light catches the silver arc, bowing across the head and coming to a tip that points at the opposite shoulder.

My hand tightens on hers and the feeling is wooden.  Gnarled and ancient trunk, full of secrets and shadows.  The chair becomes sand underneath me and something in me is sucked away.  Her grip tightens.  I cannot stay.

Polished metal and pixie dust mingle in my stomach.  It is always that feeling.  When my heart stops, and then stats again.  When, in the space between, I know. I am refused the luxury of denial.  Slowly, I start breathing again.

Her name is Anne.