My Love Proses

Prose 39: The Remedial Currency

the remedial currency

— unfinished (to be finished) short story.
i wrote this three months ago. just thought of posting it here to share one of the discreet & silent pieces that had as a writer.
hope all is well.

sincerely,
hecriedtheuniverse

*****

Tainted elixir sun-paced day, under the fugacious bucolic refuge cornered with four desultory walls made up of ivory bricks, millimetric distance by distance, sorrounding over the canon wheatfields deprived from pleasantry and consistent taste of sweeter autumn — there I laid awake on the bed, fingers slowly tracing the silhouette of sunken willow trees outside the windowpane while weeping down the little to antagonistic feeling of united melancholy, sorrow, despair, and reeling counterfeited desmesne. I inhaled each hope in trade of exhaling another tormented whimper. I took another calculated deep breathe and darted a careful but lamenting glance towards the medication receipt across the micro ventilating machine next to our unit closet.

Cautiously reaching out the right hand without forsaking the terminal tubes underneath my nearly brittle and dilapidated blood-nerved skin, my breathing hitch too fast and uncontrollably defuse as I feel the inception of sweats above my palms and rising pressure on my forehead. tears trickled down my cheeks again, despicably begging and catalysmically crying for miracle amidst the small, impossible to achieve dilemma around this fatally wounded facility.

My anguish stooped down its clear facade as waves of ruthless, brutally miserable, raw, cruel, all shattering emotions broke inside me. I cried, hardly louder than I ever did.

"Help, I need to take the p-prescribed medicine again. S-someone out there, please help me." The crimson interwoven blanket gifted by my late grandfather fell from the bed just as I about to dribble my chest after it horribly ached out of control.

Mourning, kneeling — silent cries of prayer escaped from my lips, cursing the crucifix for excruciating the murderous pain I feel. I had no one. I need anyone.

Right now. It can be the nurse who lost half of her patience because of my uncontrollable slumber. It can be my sister who instantly flee from Michigan to the South coast after cutting all disappointing expenses that I monthly incurred.

It can be my father who threw dosages of verbal expletives at me just few hours ago before he left with his ill-gotten mistress. It can be my childhood bestfriend who pawn all the accessories that I asked her to keep.

It can be the three random strangers who poured tarnished leaks of awful, abiotic sedimentary hollows right beside the door and reprimanded me for the defensively insane, attacking remorse that I had responded to their uttermost burst of disrespect. It can be my relatives who purposefully lost their contact to avoid the plight that I may cause them. It can be anyone.

Please let there be anyone. For anyone is enough to be everything that I ever need.

This eternal — discouraging combat of suffering. A tail without end, a coin with infinite number, an insurmountable darkness beyond the space of time.

I need anyone. It can be anyone. Please let there be anyone. For anyone is enough to be everything that I ever needed.

A metamorphosis. An endless cycle of testimonial rite. An itch of gruesome serendipity.

An evening rosary paired with surreptitious condemnation of the life I almost never bother to live not until this illness took me alive from death and I was forced to survive again — for innumerable decades, centuries I could no longer envision on the tabletop calendar.

In midst of battlecry, I counted an interval of unpredictable milliseconds while discarding the tight knot on my throat but it did not last longer when someone rushed to my bedside and held my hand as though it has always been the mortal version of classic porcelain.

"God, I'm sorry..." He trailed off. A tear escape from him.
"I'm really really sorry for leaving you." His voice cracked and lowered.

He panted as fast as the triathlon race that we once witnessed back in our first date when everything was still fine and atomic. Compared to the innocuous drizzles over the window, waters streamed like an ancient river down to the blur figures of my face. Our precious memory in the past was too surreal that I thought I would die whenever I forget to remember it.

Forgetting is painful. Remembering that I forgot only makes it worst. The only reason keeping it to become a whole lot better is the idea of our memories no longer given the chance to be repeated again no matter the attempts of retrieving the history I lost with him.

As soon as I was finally incarcerated on this bed, I was crippled to forget the base percentage of future probability that I might relive with the love of my life. I died several times more than anyone could ever count by hand. I whimpered when he moved closer to the side where the machine was sensitively attached to every part of my conscious caricature.

My heart shattered as he slowly, mindlessly took steps back and leaned on the wall. All the heavens ripped me apart the moment he dropped down the floor and stilled for a moment.

In a million pieces, the old mirror of him was broken beyond total repair. I died when I sooner recognized that he was quietly crying by himself.