Fading

The sky was overcast with a dreary hue, parallel to the city’s mood. Its streets obscured by a deadening penumbra. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk, peering out into the sea of shadows that passed by me. All so absent in their own lives, oblivious to the despair that ravaged me whole. It felt as though a dead-weight had settled in my chest; my heart - my breath abated, strained, and strenuous. One by one, people hurried past, their faces stern and steps swift. They had zeals of some kind, austere and resolute with purpose. Had places to be, things to do, and people to see. But not me. I was alone, drowning in sorrows.

It appeared as if the city was taunting me -, the way it carried on with its bustling life. The honking cars, the chatter of people, the sound of heels clicking on the curb. Its frigid facade, its pitiless masquerade. It was just… too much. The thought of bawling, and crying, and screaming consumed my mind. As if I needed everyone to take notice of how pathetic I was. But what’s the point?

Even with thoughtlessness, my legs naturally dragged me to the pale, almost anaemic building that loomed ahead, a bully belittling all those who enter. A snide memoir of the vast world and how minute & nugatory we are. I felt faint, incurable as I tottered through the laden revolving-door. Forlorn, today would not be any different; the same old hours of mindless and aimless strolls along the hospital beds - crammed like sardines.

“Room 701,” As I clutched the door knob, a green, churning sensation emanated from head to toe, organs twisting and turning inside out. I mustered up the courage and firmed my heart as I plunged into the tranquillity of the hospital room.

*Clack* No more were the discord of metal boxes, no more were the pings of prattling phones. Just the sweet, round, and rich piano notes.

“There you are!” I cheered, smeared with a sardonic smile; steadily glaring upon the sleeping beauty.

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Mark perched adjacent to the hospital bed, quizzically observing her chest rise and fall. Life-support machines stringed across her body beeped rhythmically - repetitively. The clock struck 6, the ceiling gently lit up in a subdued yellow. He stared at her face, now so bloodless and cold. And yet, barely clinging onto life,

“You’re still as beautiful as ever, even as a zombie,” he muttered sotto voce, garnished by a smirk.

The clock persisted on ticking. As always, trying to distract himself from the passing of time, his eyes darted around the room, never staying focused on one thing for too long. Mark fidgeted in his red velvet chair round the clock, drumming his fingers, pattering glass table. His foot restless, bouncing up and about. Occasionally twisting the plastic on his wristband. Did he sense the bad news?

“Good morning sir, early as always.” He remained silent, gawking at me.

We-“We’re sorry but we have to…” I stuttered, a moment of awkward hesitation; the mind battered by melancholy. Struggling to form a coherent statement.

“Unfortunately… your wife, has been in a coma for too long.” Still, he remained silent, ogling at my lips; as if emitting a pathological threat.

I paused, and I broke… I let it all out.

“With the increasing rates of patient turnover, we find that this care is ineffective. The hospital suggests that we might need to transfer her or perhaps…”

A sudden exasperation and dejection etched into every single line of his face - revealing two sides of the same coin. His brows depressed into a sine wave, furrowing into a trench. His eyes, habitually so rested and soulless, widened to submit inferno, charged by such frenzy and wrath. His lips twisted into a deathly scowl, jaws clenched so tightly that pulsating on its surface were ivy-like veins and adamant cheekbones.

Every syllable materialised by his coarse throat resounded like a creature lashing out in fury - a hurt animal. His breath spurted into stubby air. Fists tighten like fibre till skin breaking. But beneath all that outrage, the sliver of tears that trickled down couldn't lie.

“Euthanasia? What?! No!” Mark argued in defeat.

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I had a feeling this day would arrive. She laid ensconced in a timeless slumber, reposed and vegetative; her chances were like a fragile thread swaying in the wind, even if she somehow awakened.

It has always seemed like the revolving door was warning me, an augury of change, compelling me to move on or be left behind.

I stir from my sleep, restless as ever, my mind an endless carousel of hope and despair, spinning through the night. Will tomorrow bring her sweet release, or cruel fate, ushering in her return like a ghost from the beyond?

I can’t even see the cinemas, go on long drives, frequent the pub, or even visit my dear mother. On weekends, I labour like a lapdog, accounting her surging accumulation of hospital bills.

For a decade I have yearned, an ache that knows no relief. I am… at the brink of madness.

Till death do us part I suppose.