Hospice

Death Bets

Ominis Gaunt wasn't sure if he believed in things like karma or an eye for an eye. That said, it was hard to deny the cosmic judgment banging its gavel down upon his mother and her terminal illness. Perhaps, he thought, if she had been the mother she should've been all along—his best friend, his comfort, his self-esteem, and most of all his parent—she would still have many years of life left. Though blind, even Ominis could see that his mother had very little time left. No longer were her hurtful words as sharp, nor were steps as light and decisive. Her spitting rage developed into a haggard disdain, and her walk devolved into a lumbering shuffle.

He listened to that listless, bitter gait that day as the nurses showed him and his mother to her hospice room. His mother, of course, refused a wheelchair.

"I don't need that," she said, "I'm no invalid!"
"Of course, Mrs. Gaunt."

The second nurse stuck close to Ominis as he used his cane to feel around the tiled floor. The nurse's presence was comforting, more so than other nurses. She smelled like flowers, and underneath that: babies with a hint of vomit, so he assumed she was a pediatric nurse. It was no wonder then that she would've been assigned to him as a scared little kid. Even at 8 years old, Ominis knew he was simply a child way in over his head. So he kept his wits about him as much as he could and listened to the nurse tell him where things were as they passed.

"That down there is the 3rd floor mess hall where you can go for free meals," she said. "And the bathroom is coming up on our right."

Ominis stayed quiet. Whenever he'd tried to open his mouth, he often heard his mother's voice at the back of his head. 'Shut up, boy', she'd say. So closed his mouth would stay.

"You better thank the nurse, boy," demanded his mother. "Show some respect."

Of course, Ominis knew the possibility of that reaction as well. His mother constantly gave him conflicting rules, so he always followed the most recent one.

"Yes, Mum," he said. He turned a bit to the nurse beside him. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Sure thing, sweetie."

Finally, they came upon his mother's room. The moment they entered, his mother wanted this and that changed. The bed was too far in the corner, the sun was too bright in the windows—

"And someone needs to replace the towels in the bathroom. I'm allergic to polyester!"

She wasn't.

"Of course, Mrs. Gaunt, we'll get you cotton right away," said the far too tolerant nurse. She smelled of plastic IV bags, isopropyl alcohol, and saline. She must've been an efficient and experienced nurse, otherwise she'd never be able to handle his mother.

As the nurses helped get the room settled, Ominis took his opportunity to leave and explore. Farther down the hall, he heard people chatting. A cart rolled toward him so he kept to the side to avoid it.

"Hello, honey," greeted a nurse.
"Hello, ma'am."

He felt about with his stick once she passed, curious of the noise. The closer he got, the more he smelled food, drink, IVs, and body odor. The voices cleared up. Men, older—maybe in their 50s or 60s—chatted with one another about a rather morbid topic.

"All right, place your bets, boys! Who's the lucky sumbitch that's gonna die next?"
Another laughed. "This again? You think just cuz you won last time you're psychic or some shit?"
"'Course Phil does, the man is senile!"

Laughter roared from the men. Ominis knew he was in the right room as he saw the lights grow brighter in his blind eyes—the only thing he could see—and the smells and sounds had landed right on top of him.

"Eh? Who's the blind kid?"
"Ominis, sir."
"'Sir', he says!"

They laughed at him. He didn't mind it. Ominis preferred to be polite and then mocked, than to be rude at all.

"What're you doing here, boy? This place is for grown-ups."
"Richard," called one of the nurses. "Be nice. His mother is here."
"Your mom, eh?" asked Richard. "Sorry to hear that, son."
"Yeah," Phil agreed. "Why don't you pull up a chair? Join the party of people bored to tears. Ain't nuttin' else to do around here."
"Thank you," said Ominis.

The group continued chatting about their "death bets".

"I bet 20 bucks ol' Batty Betty is next."
"Oh yeah?" Richard said. "Bet you it's Henry. He's an old coot what can barely get out of bed anymore. 25 on him."

Ominis knew no one's names, nor anything about their situations. But he knew how to turn the tables so the game would go in his favor.

At first, he rejected the idea. The morbid game was of no interest to him. Certainly, betting on people's deaths was an awful thing, he thought. Almost as awful as his poverty-stricken life. What money they had was spent on this hospice care. Once his mother died, he would be forced to live with his equally horrible and impoverished father.

He longed for something better. Oddly, he longed for his mother to have more comfort before death. Watching her waste away, even after all her vitriolic words, sent a shock through his heart and made sick settle on his stomach.

While Ominis didn't think he had much going for him, what he did have was the strange ability to read minds. The idea of searching through someone's thoughts without permission made his skin crawl. How utterly violating. And the minds of nurses or doctors, no less; people who don't share their grim thoughts with any patients—and not their children, either. Thoughts that Ominis felt sure would be full of macabre knowledge. But the bets were coming to a close, and he had to act now or never.

He heard the nurse from before sniffle and looked toward the sound. The impossible to define sense kicked in effortlessly, like flicking a switch.

'Those stupid bets,' the nurse thought, these words at the very top of her consciousness, 'they're just awful.' He dug a little deeper. 'Stephen is doing better—Henry still has another month or so, I'm sure, his heart disease is—Jerald is the real contender. He almost coded yesterday and his lips were turning blue. I'll be amazed if he makes it to the end of the week.'

"5 bucks on Jerald," Ominis said.

The room went silent. The air was so thick that it hitched Ominis' breath. But then the men burst out into rancorous cackles.

"I like ya, kid!"
"Boy's got hutzpah!"

One of the men patted his back. Ominis simply smiled. In a way, he hoped he was wrong so he'd never want to play this game again.

___

AN: This idea came to me in a dream. Probably going to be an extremely short fic, maybe 5 parts. Set in the Muggle world. Don't ask me why they're in America, idk, my dreaming brain said so :) Barely editing this, fuck you