Morgue
One of One
The other doctors told me there were two possibilities in this world. Life or death. And as doctors, we had to take the anatomy of these strangers and twist it into a miracle. Every success was a miracle, because the complications were numerous, and sometimes unexplainable.
As I lay here next to you, like a porcelain corpse myself, my mind shows black and white reruns of the the gridded window in which I witnessed your death. My friends and colleagues standing in your blood and trying to save what was left of the vessel of my husband.
Surgery is simple. Cut, fix, stitch up. The stitches eventually come out, and the cut heals, maybe leaving a scar. Death is the hard part. It leaves cuts on a person that can't be stitched up, never healed, always leaking a little blood until you either try to ignore it or you open it up wider.
"You look beautiful as an angel." I whisper into his ear.
His even, blue and white complexion glowed under the swinging white light from overhead. I ran my fingers through his bronze hair, and lay above his heart. Nothing. "David?"
I slid off the table and faced him. I opened his eyes, shined my small flashlight into his pupil. "David." Nothing. Clenching my fists, I paced, catching glimpses of the empty beds and a box full of blank toe tags.
I slapped him.
His head just sort of switched direction, his mouth hung open, his eyes stayed closed. Suddenly my scrubs became heavy, and I sunk down and buried my head in his hand. "Fuck you, David." My sobs filled the room and it's small dimensions.
"I love you."
As I lay here next to you, like a porcelain corpse myself, my mind shows black and white reruns of the the gridded window in which I witnessed your death. My friends and colleagues standing in your blood and trying to save what was left of the vessel of my husband.
Surgery is simple. Cut, fix, stitch up. The stitches eventually come out, and the cut heals, maybe leaving a scar. Death is the hard part. It leaves cuts on a person that can't be stitched up, never healed, always leaking a little blood until you either try to ignore it or you open it up wider.
"You look beautiful as an angel." I whisper into his ear.
His even, blue and white complexion glowed under the swinging white light from overhead. I ran my fingers through his bronze hair, and lay above his heart. Nothing. "David?"
I slid off the table and faced him. I opened his eyes, shined my small flashlight into his pupil. "David." Nothing. Clenching my fists, I paced, catching glimpses of the empty beds and a box full of blank toe tags.
I slapped him.
His head just sort of switched direction, his mouth hung open, his eyes stayed closed. Suddenly my scrubs became heavy, and I sunk down and buried my head in his hand. "Fuck you, David." My sobs filled the room and it's small dimensions.
"I love you."