The Personal File of Marcus Zillman

   My name is Lina, and I'm a nurse in the local hospice located at the intersection of 8th Street and Central Boulevard. I work all day long at the bedsides of my patients taking their pulses and observing their respiratory rates; I am not allowed to give them forecasts or promise anything but a morphine drip. Our patients' lives are all about four walls and pain medication lasting until the encounter with Almighty. I serve for an instant in every ward, more like a flash that appears to light up their final shaded days. I am their casual acquaintance who possesses everything they used to have outside of the hospice. Most importantly I have time that was obliterated from these morose people; they all are my friends who bequeath their life stories to me.

   Every week I create personal files for those who have already gone to a better world. The patients' biographies fully occupy my top shelf; all are neatly piled up by the first letters. I have just finished one of my favorite stories, the personal file of Marcus Zillman, he died on Tuesday at 12.47 p.m. Marcus was a 64-year-old man with silver silk hair and curled dandy mustache on top of a faint curve to the lips, his overworn face expression remained sadly anticipating. There was reticence depicted in his tired gaze, some mystery. He shared his story with me a day before he left...

   The cold hospice ward was glowing in orange color of morning sun making Marcus's hair look yellow instead of the noble silver. The cellphone shortly buzzed eleven o'clock by this time. He heavily opened his gummy eyes protruded in venous netting vainly trying to catch an itching cough. His pathetic eyes obscured by cataracts observed the unprofitable drop counter that remained immovable for three and a half hours.

"Good morning, Mr. Zillman," I murmured quietly.

"Morning, Lina. What a beautiful perfume you're wearing," he raised his left eyebrow still making small coughs "I can smell a gentle hint daisies and summer cherries" he broke into a pleasant smile.

"Thank you," I glanced at his dimple wrinkles "How're you feeling? Doctor Martin gave you an anesthetic, was it helpful overnight?"

"I never told you, but I think that I don't need overnight medicine; a blanket of night protects me better," Marcus murmured.

"Why is it?"

"I feel no doctor's words splinter inside my head causing more pain, I don't feel any scars and postoperative stitches. I feel sublime of her voice, soft as a whistle of tall grass and subtle as the day breaking silence. I guess I'm feeling energized!"

   Remorsefully looking into his eyes, I gently extracted a needle from his protruded vein. I knew that nothing is going to be alright, and the energy was only a vivid mirage. I was not able to give any forecasts or vainly infuse his ill heart with hope.

"Who is she, of what voice your dreams are about?" I dared to ask.

"Ah, the voice, how beautiful, thrilling it is!" he exclaimed "This voice obscures the mystery behind its soft beloved soprano. It was just one call a year. We would talk all day long refraining from looking at the watch," a smile overspread his broad face.

"What do you mean by one call a year?" I made a bewildered face.

   Marcus closed his eyelids in confusion and fear, like a child who exposed his friend's hidden mysteries. He wasn't eager to reveal himself entirely; he preferred to remain a closed book that conceals a storage of secrets among its endless lines.

"No one knows my story," he said deliberately.

"I can keep it if you want me. I don't force you to tell me, but all you said was pretty intriguing," I adjusted his pillow and shaken the tattered blanket; golden dust was thrilling in the air.