Mercy

June 21st

Sweetie, I think you’re a little lost.

My ears capture the sound, yet my mind is far too drugged to fully regain consciousness. I find myself in a frustrating state of limbo in which I’m not quite awake, but I’m not entirely asleep, either. I’m dreaming some crazy shit about being in another hospital, only this time I’m old. I’m dying. The dream is vivid enough to be another one of my useless visions, though one specific aspect of it begs me to seriously doubt its legitimacy. I see a young man in scrubs fumbling about with charts and paperwork before he advances on me to check my vitals. I know without asking that he’s not a doctor, but something foul within me wants to watch him writhe in embarrassment. Sure enough, he trips and nearly falls with his right arm flailing. He must grasp the side of my bed to keep from falling. My elderly alter-ego laughs at the young man’s expense, though some sort of awful cough stops my laughter short. His face burns red with mortification, and he recoils as if I’d physically harmed him. Before he completely releases his grip on the bedding, I notice how horrifically scarred his wrist is. I vaguely wonder if this kid’s into bondage, but the psychic image he burns into my mind says otherwise. He’s been abused. Badly. My heart bleeds for him for just a moment, though I quickly regain my composure in fear of being outed.

I’m suddenly certain this man, this fucking nurse, is gay. He’s tormented, demented, and so much like me it’s frightening. I want to distance myself from him in fear of growing attached.

I feel the urge to call him Fairy.

My eyes shoot open and dart frantically about the hospital room, half-expecting to find the Fairy-man in there with me. He isn’t, of course, but for a good five minutes I swear he is. I want to talk to him about our equally tragic lives, how fucked up the world is for not accepting us, yet his features are already beginning to fade from my conscious mind. I cry the moment I forget his face. Only his nickname resonates throughout my very soul.

Fairy. Fairy. Fairy.

I decide that if this kid actually exists, I’ll travel the world until I find him. I have a good feeling about him. He’s gonna be good for me even though I’ll most likely end up hurting him in the end. I’m too good at that.

Fuck it, I’ll leave him alone. He probably doesn’t even exist yet, judging by how goddamn old I was in the vision. Not until I learn his real name will I even try to pursue him.

God, I hope I see his face again.

Honey, did you hear me? I’m a bit worried about you.

Though the lights in my hospital room have been dimmed to ensure I got a decent night’s sleep, the woman hovering beside my bed has a luminescence all her own. She’s not like the others. This ghost is peaceful and completely unaware of her own death. It’s her type that depresses me the most.

“Sorry. I was a little lost in a drug-induced coma there, ma’am,” I whisper, wary of anyone hearing my conversation. They would only hear my side of it and would subsequently pronounce me insane. I would very much like to avoid that.

How strange. Did the drugs cause you to sleepwalk into my bed?

“No, ma’am. This here’s my room, ‘n’ I’m restin’ in my bed. You sure you ain’t the next room over?” I offer, trying to get her to leave me alone. She doesn’t buy it.

That can’t be. This is room 213. I’ve been occupying this room for months, sweetie. Are you lost?

Shit. This woman has no idea she bit the dust. I bet she even died in the very same bed I’ve been confined to for the last two or three days. I shudder, wondering how much longer it’ll be before her symptoms start manifesting themselves within me. If I’m lucky, though, I won’t absorb them at all. Maybe my empathic abilities will give me a break just this once.

“What year is it, ma’am?” I ask her.

She gives me an incredulous look, brows furrowing in confusion, before replying, Sixty-six, and please call me Shirley. I think we’re well past the formalities now.

Ok, so she died recently. How recent, I’m not exactly sure I want to know, but the question tumbles from my mouth before I gain the control to stop it.

“Yeah, o’ course it’s sixty-six. I meant to ask you what month it is.”

Her features soften as she coos, May, sweetheart. It’s the month of May. Did you suffer head trauma or something? Is that why you seem so confused?

“No, ma’am…I mean…Shirley. You’re the one who’s confused,” I inform her. Once again, her brows furrow in desperate concentration. It becomes glaringly obvious that the longer this conversation drags on, the less she likes me.

I’m afraid I don’t follow, swee-

“Call me Billie Joe.”

Ok, Billie Joe. I’m afraid I don’t follow you.

My hands wring together as I scan my mind for the best possible route to take. Should I break it to her lightly, or would it be best for my notoriously blunt nature to wreak havoc on her undead emotions?

I settle for something in between.

“There ain’t no easy way to say this, but it’s nearly July. You been dead since May, so this room ain’t been yours for a few weeks now,” I explain to her.

No. No, that can’t be. Billie Joe, you are sorely mistaken, she declares, vigorously shaking her head.

“You gotta ‘member somethin’ that’ll make you see I ain’t lyin’. Pain, fear, a giant fuckin’ white light that you must o’ avoided like the plague?” I snap. Looks like my conscious attempts at civility have been slaughtered.

You don’t understand. I can’t be dead. My grandson’s going to move in with me once I have this operation. He needs me because my insensitive son and daughter-in-law threw him out! she rambles, nearly hysterical at this point. My heart races to match her evident panic.

“You can’t help ‘im no more. I’m so sorry,” I whimper, a rogue tear battling its way into existence only to fall gracelessly down my cheek.

But he’s only ten! How can my little Frankie possibly survive on his own? Shirley cries, falling into me for comfort. Her lack of substance causes her to fall through me. Her contact, or lack thereof, is a shockwave of ice and despair, and it pains me on more levels than one.

“If he’s strong, he’ll make it. You can watch over ‘im ‘n’ make sure he does, but that’s about all you can do,” I suggest, though we both know it’s a long shot at best. We’re both just too fragile to accept it.

I have a better idea. What if I find him, and then lead you to him?

Under different circumstances, I would immediately refuse, but I feel obligated to help this woman. I am, after all, invading her deathbed.

“Ok. If you find your gran’baby for me, I’ll take good care o’ ‘im,” I assure her, lifting a hand towards her misty figure. A translucent hand hovers on top of it, and an image of a copper-haired little boy shaking in the passenger seat of a semi-truck invades my mind.

Thank you, she murmurs.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that she won’t get to him before the truck driver does.