Shot of Vodka, Shot of Pain

Hospitals always gave me the creeps and put me on edge. I think it was the smell. Smells always had a way of bringing me back to a memory or a feeling. As I was wheeled down the hallway (and I still couldn't believe they put me in a wheelchair) I was pulled back in time to my grandmother's nursing home. Sure she was awesome and I loved seeing her, but it was filled with crazy old people, especially horny old men. As I got older, I had to walk swiftly through the halls in order to avoid being accosted or someone smacking my ass. But the biggest thing that stood out in my memory is watching my grandmother wither away until that sad April morning when she passed.

That's why I was dreading reaching the end of this hallway. All of those feelings just came rushing back. I could feel the death in the back of my throat, in the tips of my fingers. I was heading towards it with no way out.

"Here we go dear," the nurse said as she extended an arm to help me up.

"I can get up by myself. I hit my head, not my legs," I replied and stood up without her assistance.

"Just take it easy will ya? Gosh you're as stubborn as they come. I can still remember you screaming when they brought you in," she said.

"Mom always said I had lungs," I said and opened the door. I could only open it a crack though, struggling to take a breath in.

"Just go in there, it'll be fine. A doctor is there to help you if you need anything. Just identify the body and come back outside. Then you can cry all you want or keep using humor as a defense. Your decision," she said.

I steadied myself a bit and tightened the grip on the door handle. I pushed the rest of the door open and there was the doctor, as promised. He guided me to the wall of drawers where the dead lay in their frozen cells. He checked the file he had in his hand and chose a door, pulling it open and sliding out the slab. Underneath the sheet I could see the male figure resting, a slight blood stain seeping through the cotton fabric. My breath caught in my throat and he looked up at me, hands on the hem of the sheet.

"You sure you can do this? There's others who can," he asked.

"I'm fine. Go ahead," I said and motioned for him to continue.

He looked at me long and hard before pulling back the sheet. His skin was still slightly pink, a bit of color left in his cheeks. His lips were blue though the tell tale giveaway that he was dead was the hole on the side of his head. They had cleaned up the bloody mess of a bullet wound but it was still evident it was there.

"That's him," I said and he pulled down the sheet.

I left the room, eager to leave. The nurse was waiting right where I left her and helped me ease back into the wheelchair. She crouched down in front of me and held my hands in hers staring me straight in the eye.

"You are very brave. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise," she said. I nodded and felt the tears on the brim of my eyes. I wiped them away as she wheeled me down the hall.