Steven was going to die.
He knew this as a fact. His body
was being deprived of oxygen at an alarming rate. Without that vital component, his life would slowly
grind to a halt amidst a hail of sniffles and coughs. That would be his legacy, Steven thought.
He clutched
the soiled handkerchief in his hand. It
repulsed him in its nature. He imagined
all the germs and organisms that clung to its surface like it was a life
raft. This small piece of fabric was the
sum of his suffering and pain, yet he could not throw it away, it was his
safety net, the only thing that protected him.
In olden days, they would have condemned Steven to a far off ward on a
mountaintop somewhere. Left alone with
those of his kind to wallow and groan.
This might be welcomed at this point, Steven thought. At least then he would not have to face the
looks of the others. To them, he was a
wounded animal who needed to be put down.
Five more
minutes, they told him, as he sat in this sterile, dead waiting room. Old issues of Popular Mechanics and People littered
the place like dead leaves. This is how
they get you, Steven thought. If you aren’t
suffering before you enter this place, you certainly will be when you
leave. He dared not touch anything he
did not have to. You never know what the
person next to you is afflicted with. Better
to suffer within, he did not need to contract the black death, or Ebola, or one
of the hundreds of other disorders he conjured in his mind. They were all there, waiting to pounce in him
if he miss-stepped at all.
Steven
coughed again; that deep, booming cough that feels as if it will bring up
pieces of your soul with it. He clutched
his savior to his mouth again and prayed he could keep it from escaping his
body this time. His eyes watered, his
throat burned, his nose was a clogged passage.
This was not how man was meant to endure life, as a broken shell. Steven just hoped, and prayed that his Doctor
could give him something for this damn cold.
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