I didn’t wake up. I hadn’t been sleeping. I hadn’t been conscious, though, I’d been blank as I walked through the halls. It felt like coming out of a dream I couldn’t remember. White walls, like some near-death go-toward-the-light (or was it go-past-the-light?) corridor, hadn’t even registered. The numbness had seeped into every bit of me.
How could I see the disease-sapped shell of someone I loved displayed in that polished box and not run from the feelings it brought up? Did I have any right to feel such tremendous loss for a moment? What claim did I have to sixteen hours’ memories? What did I matter to the dead?
How could I see the disease-sapped shell of someone I loved displayed in that polished box and not run from the feelings it brought up? Did I have any right to feel such tremendous loss for a moment? What claim did I have to sixteen hours’ memories? What did I matter to the dead?
1 comment on “Cotton Death”
Thank you. I look forward to getting into a good writing pace once things get mapped out.