Imagine Us in Heaven

Feathers

[TW: This part contains content that some might find disturbing, reader's discretion is advised]

✺✳ ┅ ⑅ ┅ ✳✺

Blowing the last remaining flame from my cigar, I glance around before tossing it to the ground and crushing it underfoot. My footsteps echo on the asphalt as I stroll down the street, eyeing the buildings and skyscrapers stretching toward the horizon. Taxis blare their horns, and people in the most outrageous fashions fill the sidewalks. Sure, you can snap pictures of them, but that doesn't mean they come without a price.

Swings from every Broadway show ask you to buy their tickets, even though some have been sold out for six months. But at night, this vibrant and magical side of the city lights up in every color imaginable. The lights reflect off the windows, making the entire scene sparkle even more.

Admiring them this way makes me feel even more like a piece of shit, if not downright miserable. Wasn't it just yesterday that I escaped the clutches of that obsessed debt collector I thought would be the end of me? I laugh at it now, but I never imagined that visiting the hospital for our annual check-up could be even worse.

I hate hospitals.

The smell, the atmosphere, the overall aesthetic---all of it leaves me feeling completely drained. It's ironic, given that I work at a funeral home, washing and excreting fluids and gases from bodies to replace them with preservatives is part of my job. Even so, it doesn't lessen my abhorrence of hospitals and the people who work in them. Those nurses smiling as if they owe you money and those doctors who are either blatantly rude or excessively sympathetic, never anything in between.

Just this morning, I walked through the corridors, heading to get the results of my annual physical check-up. I saw several people waiting, some fretting and others crying. I couldn't tell if they were mourning a loved one or distressed over the bill. I trudged past every room, minding my own business and reading the doctors' name tags. The smell of the place no longer bothers me. In fact, it's the only thing I like about hospitals. The odor of antiseptic, alcohol, and traces of artificial fragrance from soaps and cleaners. The scent becomes more intense and varied if you enter a patient's room. Despite everything, it's the only thing that makes the place feel vividly alive.

"Mr. Lovell," says Doctor Snyder. "Come in."

We shake hands briefly; it's not our first meeting. He's always been assigned to check every employee at our funeral home. He knows each of us like the back of his hand.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling good, thank you for asking."

"Good, good..." He nods, stands momentarily, and turns his back to retrieve my record from the filing cabinet. "Any... uh... discomfort?"

I crease my brows. "What do you mean by discomfort?"

"You know, chest pains? Coughing?"

I shrug. "Well, the coughing is normal since I smoke. It goes away in a few days or so."

"What about shortness of breath?"

"Hm, I don't think so."

"Wheezing?"

"Not much."

"But there is?"

"Sometimes." I frown and lean closer. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well, ah... we have the result of your X-ray."

"And?"

There's hesitation in his voice I've never heard before. He hands me the result first before speaking, "We found a lung tumor. It's the white-grey mass you can see there..." He reluctantly points it out on the X-ray. "The abnormal mass or nodule seems to be at an advanced stage, and..."